


And Three Makes The Crowd

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drama, Family, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An invitation from an old family friend calls Watson away from 221B Baker Street.  Holmes promises to follow as soon as he is able, but what intrigue awaits in the meantime?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“A postcard from Brighton – the scribble is appalling, I cannot possibly imagine who it is from... a letter for me, a new client, I think... and _this_ looks like an invoice, and _this_... this appears to be a letter for you, Watson.”

My friend Sherlock Holmes tossed the small manila envelope across the breakfast table to me. It landed in the jam-pot; I did not rebuke him. I glanced at the script upon the front of it. A gentleman's handwriting, no doubt (for my years with Holmes had served me well on many fronts), it was impressively large-looped and noisy. A hand with a tremor, I decided, for the letters were uneven. I slit open the seal with my butter-knife and removed the one-sheet within.

“Why, it is a letter from an old friend of my brother's,” I exclaimed. “Charlie Simmons -- my word! I wonder what the fellow has been up to all these years?”

“It may be to your advantage to read the letter, then, so that you might find out,” Holmes replied. He was examining the Brighton postcard with an air of annoyance. It seemed unlikely that the summer greeting would ever reach the mantel for prominent display. “Who on _earth_ has been in Brighton?” he murmured, half to himself. “And why should they be under the misguided illusion that I would wish to know of their donkey rides and strawberry ice-creams? Watson?”

I leaned across to take a closer look. “My dear fellow, the postcard is not addressed to the either of us,” I said. “It is for Mrs. Hudson, from her friend, Mrs. Turner. Do you not see the name at the bottom of the card?”

“I thought it was an ink blot,” replied Holmes. He dismissed the card to the window-sill; leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply and long. “It most likely still is,” he added, quietly, peeping at me from the corner of one eye. I caught his mischief; he winked and smirked.

It was the summer of 1887. Holmes and I had been together in our bliss for a little over one year already, since the events that brought us together in my humble story _A Trifling Matter_. This, written purely for my own pleasure and record, was most definitely not for publication, or, heaven forbid, serialisation within The Strand. It had been a _mostly_ blissful year, of course, with the usual rubs and bumps which any new relationship might encounter, along with the necessary cares and discretions. The adoration and affection which my friend and I shared had dimmed not one iota -- indeed, our regard seemed to me to be stronger than ever. We did not speak -- overmuch -- of our emotion, but we strived to care for each other's needs and wants, and to love one another well. We had come a long way, the both of us, I think.

Summer, then. And it _was_ blazing hot. Baker Street roiled; greater London sweated and suffered. The windows of our sitting-room were thrown open wide that morning, as we sat in shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I fanned my face with a thick sheaf of medical papers and cursed the heat. I placed Charlie Simmons's letter upon the table in front of me and began to read with no small amount of interest, for old Simmons had been a great friend to my brother when we were younger. It was with a keen sense of nostalgia and an almost equal one of shame that I realised I had not given the either of them very much thought over the past seven years.

“Simmons has been unwell,” I remarked to my friend. “A heart complaint, he tells me He holds little faith in his local doctors. He wishes me to visit him, in the hope that I might make a clearer diagnosis and perhaps prescribe a relief. He is too weak to travel himself, at present.”

“Where does the gentleman live?”

“Windermere.”

“That is a considerable distance. There are really no other practitioners closer to hand whom he might trust to treat his condition?”

“It appears not. I think also perhaps he is lonely and craves company, the more-so now he is unwell. He does not mention a wife or family in his letter. He extends an invitation for a fortnight, and that I may bring a guest with me if I would like. I think yes. Will you join me, love? I believe Windermere to be exceptionally picturesque at this time of year.”

“The fellow wants you to travel _immediately?_ ” Holmes frowned. “You know that it is impossible for me to leave Baker Street at present, Watson; I have two important cases at hand and I absolutely must be here for when they conclude. You must give Simmons your regrets.”

“I can hardly refuse the request,” I said, thumbing the letter thoughtfully. “It would be terribly ill-mannered. And I could never forgive myself if I should hear at a later date that anything had befallen the man. I am afraid that I must go, Holmes. Do you anticipate your work keeping you in London for very much longer?”

Holmes's face pinched in displeasure. “At least a week,” said he, “if not longer. Well, then, if you must, you must.” Petulant. “You had better compose your reply to Mr. Simmons. And pack your suitcase.”

I rose from the table and moved around to my friend's side. I kissed the top of his dark head. “I will write the letter now, and accept the invite. And thereafter you will join me as soon as you are able. Yes?”

“Yes,” said he, raising a hand to touch my face. “For a fortnight is too long. Even a week will be intolerable. You say that he was a friend of your brother's. How well do you know him, personally?”

“We did not remain in contact after my brother's death,” I replied. “I met the fellow on a great many occasions prior to that, however, and always enjoyed his company. Harold and he had been friends since childhood.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes. “And now a letter from out of the blue. Well, at any rate, a two week semi-vacation in the Lakes will do you a deal of good, I dare say.” He withdrew his hand from me and stood, pushing the plain-chair back behind him. “I must go out now for a while, Watson. Expect me back later this afternoon. In time for dinner, at least.”

I wrote my telegram, and walked down to the telegraph office to despatch it. The air was thick, oppressive. Windermere would be the fresher for being so close to the water; it could surely be no worse than London. Before returning home I stopped off at the chemist to purchase a few items. I bought a vanilla ice, also, and enjoyed a short stroll in the park. Upon my arrival back at Baker Street I saw to my medical bag and packed some clothes into my travelling case. I would not set out until the day after tomorrow, but I had yet to shake off the methodical nature which was so engrained from years with my unit. I had to admit that the prospect of a spot of hands-on medical work once more after so long a drought of it, appealed to me greatly. My cheery anticipation grew, and I welcomed Holmes from his travels later that evening with talkative babble. He was silent, a little morose.

“Come out with me tomorrow,” said he, as we sat down with our brandy and cigars after dinner. “Otherwise we will not see much of each other until I catch up with you again a week from now. I cannot promise much in the way of excitement, however, my dear boy – it is only Mrs. Harbord and her stolen letters – but I should be glad of your company all the same.”

“I should be happy to accompany you tomorrow, Holmes,” I replied. “I will miss you, you know,” I added. He flashed me a reproachful look, which I thought it best to overlook. “But it will only be for a week. You will likely be so busy that you will hardly notice that I am gone.”

“I am certain of the former, but very doubtful of the latter,” my friend responded, toying with the rim of his brandy glass. “But we are not bound to one another by chain, after all. All the same...” And there he stopped.

“All the same, what?” I asked.

“Never mind,” said he, “it does not matter.”

“Come over here,” I said, “and tell me about Mrs. Harbord and her letters. Is this one of the cases that is keeping you from joining me in Windermere?”

“No,” Holmes replied, “this is a different matter, which should conclude tomorrow, all being well.” He joined me on the sofa and laid an arm around my shoulders. His lips nuzzled my neck. I began to stir and respond, but he demurred. “Not tonight, John. My mind is too full.” I drew him back to me all the same, tucking him into my chest, and despite the warmth of the evening we remained so for an hour or more, as he spoke to me of the Harbord case and his ideas surrounding it. Occasionally I leaned forward to kiss him; between embraces he would stroke gently at my upper arm in quiet meditation. I retired to bed before 11 o'clock, leaving my friend to smoke one more pipe, to think a little longer upon the day yet to come before he might extinguish the lamp and ascend the stairs, to join me and wrap his long limbs around me in slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Harbord was an elegant, charming lady, a widow in her late twenties, who greeted us the following morning as though we were old friends already, merely paying social call. She led us through the rooms of her bright, airy house to the rear garden, where the three of us sat in the shade of the large apple tree which took over quite almost a quarter of it. Two small children, a girl and boy, were there already, playing with a ball; their squeals of laughter bringing a wistful smile to my face as I watched their antics. Holmes spoke quietly with the lady, and it appeared to me that all had culminated satisfactorily, for Mrs. Harbord was smiling now, and patting her chest in relief.

“Thank you so, Mr. Holmes,” I heard her say, “thank you so very much indeed for all that you have done for me.”

Her bonny daughter, in pigtails, summer dress and muddy socks scrambled over to us. Shyly, she held out her left hand and unfolded it, halfway just, to display a glimpse of a perfect, yellow-petalled flower-head. She closed her fist and giggled at us.

“Janet,” her mother scolded fondly, “have you been picking the blooms again? For I told you not to touch them, didn't I?” She scooped the child up onto her lap, and smiled at us then. “Would you care to stay for lunch, Mr. Holmes? Doctor? You would be most welcome, and it would only take a minute to advise Cook.”

Holmes tactfully declined the invitation for the both of us, citing business elsewhere, with his regrets. When we had taken our leave finally and were walking leisurely down the Walmington Road in search of a hansom, Holmes cocked his head to look at me.

“You are broody?” he asked, although his inflection was more of a statement than question.

I chuckled, ruefully, at his observation. “A little. Perhaps. Not much.”

He eyed me curiously; was silent a short moment.

“I am sorry,” said he, finally. “It is strange that we have never discussed the subject before. Did you have thoughts of marriage, a family, before I met you? Before ever we became involved?”

“Not marriage,” I replied. “I knew my nature, even then, and I could never have deceived any woman in such a way, even had I so desperately wanted children of my own. But I admit, yes, Holmes, as illogical and impossible as it is, that I do, from time to time, feel that paternal urge.” I laughed, more to cover my sudden embarrassment than from any real sense of amusement.

Holmes touched my elbow, held his hand there as we walked.

“I have never felt that way inclined, myself,” he said, thoughtfully. “But then, I did not expect to find a partner in any capacity, at any point. I would certainly be what one might consider to be a late developer in that area.” He hummed out a sigh. “We are gifted with so much in certain areas of our lives, are we not, Watson, but it leaves us rather to the detriment in others.”

“It is not important,” I told him, smiling now, so touching was his concern to me. “I would not sacrifice what we have for the world, my dear fellow.”

“Come then,” Holmes said, with a nudge, “for here is a hansom, and if we are quick we might catch it. An afternoon, an evening and a full night ahead of us before you must away. I should not care to lose a further minute of it.”

And we caught up with the cabbie, and took our seats, and watched London roll past us over roughshod cobblestones and smooth tarmacadam as we headed back home to 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

“What became of Mrs. Harbord's letters, Holmes?” I asked, after we had arrived back at Baker Street and were settling in for the afternoon. Our rooms were impossibly stifled; we had thrown open the windows once more to draw in as much circulating air as we might – which was scarcely enough -- and my friend had set to discarding the top layers of his clothing into the far corners of the room.

“Watson, I am going to _suffocate_! I envy your jaunt up to Windermere now, really and truly I do.” He paused to rub at the back of his head. “Well, the letters... it turns out that they were misfiled with a bundle of other documents, and removed in error by the brother of the deceased husband. I had suspected such a trifle, and my reinspection of the lady's safe, the candle beside it, and the fringing on the rug quite confirmed my theory. The telegram you witnessed my receipt of this morning was an apologetic message from the brother, explaining his oversight. Exactly why our dear Mrs. Harbord did not think to question her nearest relative on the matter is quite beyond me, but there we have it. A commonplace problem, after all.”

“It is not a jaunt,” I corrected, gently. “I will be tending to a near invalid.”

“Of course,” Holmes amended, appearing not to be listening. “And I will expect a letter from you every day of your _jaunt_ , my dear boy, otherwise my feelings shall be terribly hurt.”

“I promise,” I said. Then: “Come to bed.”

“What would you do with me?” he asked, smiling. “I do feel that I must have an iced lemonade or _something_ before I take another step; otherwise I will _collapse_. MRS. HUDSON!” This last was shouted out through the open door of our sitting-room, whereupon it reverberated down the stairs quite loudly enough for the entire street to hear. “MRS. HUDSON! Oh, where _is_ the woman?”

“Very likely sitting with her feet up and drinking iced lemonade,” I replied. I stepped up to him, placed a hand upon his breast and occupied my fingers with unfastening two of his shirt buttons. I slid one palm inside the material, felt the slick heat of his skin. Brushing my thumb across the soft bristle of hair, smoothing and pulling, I heard his breath catch. My left hand explored his waist; releasing his shirt-tail, tugging the trouser band.

“Steady,” he breathed against my ear, “remember our windows are open, it is barely afternoon.”

“I want you,” I mumbled, distracted by the pale expanse of flesh my fingers had discovered. “Come upstairs with me, then.” I bit at his collarbone. (Yes, I have such a tendency -- and others besides.)

“One minute,” said he, and broke away for the door, rearranging his clothing, whereupon he disappeared. I sighed, frustrated, threw myself into my armchair and lit a cigarette. Ten minutes passed before Holmes returned, bearing a small tray with an iced carafe of lemonade and two glasses. He poured us both a tall glassful. “Patience,” he murmured, upon seeing my expression. Then: “Do you know, you were almost right, my dear fellow. Mrs. Hudson was sitting with her feet up. But not with a glass of lemonade; she was eating a chicken-leg.”

I laughed out loud at that image. The liquid was deliciously cool and soothing to our parched throats. We sat together and were still, listening to the sounds from outside of carts and horses, passers-by and busy, industrious London. Holmes placed down his empty glass and reached for a small bundle of papers, legal documents, which he began to peruse with intense concentration. With a pencil he made small notations into the margins; I watched as he worked.

“Will you be very long with that?” I asked, at last.

He looked up, quirking his thick eyebrows in question. “Forgive me,” said he. “I was struck by a thought and felt that I simply had to read through these few paragraphs again before the idea escaped me.” He returned the pencil to his pocket and stood, hand extended to me.

“Now then, John,” he said, smiling softly, “if you are still of the inclination, I am all yours.”

“Yes,” I said, walking with him to the door, “I am very much still of the inclination.”

And we ascended the stairs to my room, and exhausted all of the possibilities.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I do wish that I could travel with you tomorrow,” Holmes sighed. It was past midnight, we were in bed together. We had not, of course, been there for the entire afternoon and evening. We had returned to the sitting-room after a decent interval, but had retired to our bed quite earlier than usual to make love the once more before my journey temporarily, regretfully separated us. And now I entwined my fingers through my friend's hair, kissing his forehead, and he wrapped his arms around me the tighter.

“This morning, my love. It is morning already,” I corrected him.

Holmes groaned. “What time is your train?” he asked.

“Eight o'clock.”

He groaned again, buried his nose in my neck. “This has really come at a very inopportune time. If the blessed man had just written his letter a month earlier, then I should have had the time to spare to come up with you. If either of my cases are delayed any further then I shall be extremely cross about it.”

“The week will fly by before we know it,” I said. “I wonder what old Simmons's house is like? He did not describe it.”

“He did not appear to say very much in his letter at all, did he,” Holmes mused. “It strikes me as being very curious, but perhaps I am reading too much into it. You must telegram me the instant you arrive, John, are you listening?”

“Yes, yes, and a letter every day,” I squeezed his shoulder. “I know.”

“Mmm,” hummed my friend, drowsy now, his eyelids flickering shut, his breathing deepening, slowing. “You had better remember.”

When I looked at him again, he was asleep, his body drawn up against mine, his face relaxed, with a peaceful expression such as it so rarely carried when he was awake and alert, his brain vibrating, racing ahead of everyone else. I reached out a hand to extinguish the lamp. Within a few minutes I too was drifting and dreaming.

By 8:10 that morning I was on a packed and stifled train, my luggage safely stowed away and a novel open but ignored upon my knee. So unused was I to travelling alone in this way without Holmes, that several times during the course of the journey I turned and made as though to speak to him, only to realise my error at the disconcert of my fellow passengers. If Holmes had been here, I mused to myself, he would have wasted no time whatsoever in observing the occupants of our carriage and deducing from a neck tie or a hat pin or a shoelace not only their line of work but also their marital status, and most likely their particular preference for tea or coffee. I found myself pining quietly – barely two hours since leaving Baker Street! -- which I told myself with a stern shake would really not do at all. I was on my way to Windermere for a good cause: to treat an old friend, and Holmes would be with me before the week was out. I turned my thoughts instead to Simmons, of how vital and full of life the man had been when last I had seen him those years ago, and I hoped that time had not treated him so very unkindly, despite his apparent frailty now. I wondered of his family, his circumstances, and moreover what my own reply might be, should the question arise in general conversation as to my own marital position. Well, that particular bridge would be crossed if and when we might come to it, I decided. For now, I fully intended to enjoy the company of my host, to care for the man as best I could, and relax amidst the beautiful environs of the Lakes.

I arrived into Windermere by the middle of the afternoon, hot, dusty and tired. The railway station did not allow me to observe so very much of my surroundings, as I took hold of my bags and dragged myself along the platform and outside to locate a carriage. The streets were quaint; the buildings and premises very different in form and brickwork to those in London. I found myself standing still to admire their architecture; to breathe in the cleaner air, which was – yes! – cooler here, with such a refreshing breeze. My shirt stuck to my back with the perspiration of travel, and my leg and shoulder ached from their enforced immobility in the train, but now I stretched my limbs, inhaled deeply and set forth with new energy.

The streets were not so busy as London, either. Within just a few minutes I had found a carriage for myself, passed the address to my driver, and then we were rattling away at a good speed. The streets gradually opened out into lanes with thick low hedges bordering either side. Buildings became infrequent; the people even fewer. Hills, grasses, fleeting glimpses of long stretches of water in the far distance, all of this I devoured with eager eyes as the carriage drew me ever closer to my destination.

After perhaps a 30 minute drive, the carriage heaved up a meandering incline of rough lane before pulling into a driveway which curved around a spacious two-storey cottage, painted the most restful shade of pale yellow. Trees lined the driveway. As I peered around the side of the cottage I thought that I could spy a bathing pool at the rear. Rich, green lawns surrounded the property, the front of which displayed magnificently decorative sash windows and shutters. While I was admiring these riches I had barely noticed that my driver had stepped down from the carriage and was holding the door open for me. I descended, paid my man his fare, tipped him generously (for my mood was spirited by now), and, grasping tighter at my bags, stepped up to the front door of the cottage.

Before I had even the opportunity to rap on the brass knocker fashioned in the graceful image of a swan, the door swung open and a tall figure moved forward to stand upon the threshold.

“John Watson!” the figure exclaimed. The voice was not as strong as I remembered it, but yes, I did remember it all the same.

“Charlie Simmons,” said I, warmly, and walked into a handshake, an embrace and a clap on the back.

“It is so very good to see you after all these years,” I said, blinking up at him, shaded as he was from the shaft of bright sunlight.

He chuckled. “Likewise, my friend; I do assure you likewise.”

I caught a better look at the fellow then. His hair was greyer, the lines upon his forehead and at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, and those eyes were tired and strained; but he was still the Charlie Simmons of old, despite all that.

“Come in, come in,” said he. “Oh, but now, look who is here.”

I squinted and peered as another figure stepped forward to join us.

“This is Peter,” said Simmons. “Peter, I should very much like to introduce you to Doctor John Watson.”

I took hold of the proffered hand, and shook it, and looked up into a pair of quite the bluest eyes which I had ever yet had the advantage to see.

“Doctor Watson,” said the voice behind the blue eyes, “I am so very pleased to meet you.”


	3. Chapter 3

I stepped into the hall of Goldenrod Cottage, blinking as my eyes gradually adjusted to the light.

“Peter,” I said, glancing from the young gentleman across to my friend Charlie and back, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Are you a friend of old Simmons here?” It seemed possible but rather unlikely, for there was a considerable age difference between the two men.

“Dear me, no,” said the younger, “this is my father.”

“Yes, Peter is my son,” Simmons smiled. “I apologise, Watson. It was not my intention to confuse you. I realise now that there was no mention of my family in my letter to you, and that was very careless of me, but as you do appreciate I have had much on my mind of late.”

He beckoned the two of us through into the sitting-room, and we sat down upon a comfortable sofa and chairs by the open window, the most delightful floral-scented breeze streaming in. Simmons eased himself into his chair sighing, mopping his forehead.

“You see, even the smallest degree of activity fatigues me these days,” said he, smiling ruefully.

I looked curiously at the son, who was lolling back against the cushions and smoothing out his shirt-sleeves much as a cat might clean its fur. He was young, yes, under 20 years of age, and his appearance was striking. Blond hair cut short, with an almost impertinent cow-lick at the front. Tall, lean, square-jawed, and crisply dressed in powder-blue shirt and pinstripes. He impressed upon me the image of a boy striving hard to become a man, and deciding that sartorial nous was the best way to achieve that goal. He looked up quite suddenly and caught me regarding him; I turned swiftly to my friend.

“I had no idea that you had a son, Simmons,” I said, chuckling and shaking my head. “Might I enquire after your good lady wife? I should like to meet her also.”

Simmons waved away my question. “We shall talk of all that later,” said he. “Right now it is just the three of us, oh, and dear old Magda our housekeeper, of course. My dear fellow, it is a delight to see you, but you must be tired after such a long journey -- Peter, would you show the Doctor to his room? -- I am sure that you would prefer to unpack and refresh yourself before we embark on any long conversations, eh, ha ha! What shall we say -- we meet down here again in one hour, will that be all right?”

“That is a good idea,” I admitted. “Although I feel that your wonderful country air has invigorated me much already.”

Simmons smiled, and motioned for us to depart. I turned to follow the young lad into the hallway, and up the wide oak staircase to the first-floor landing.

“Peter,” I said, striking my forehead suddenly, “I had quite forgotten that I must send a telegram to assure someone of my arrival. Is it possible to do that from here? Is there a local telegraph office I might use?”

Peter looked at me, considering. “Yes, there is one, but it is a 20 minute walk. I could show you around the area, if you like, but wouldn't you prefer to rest first?”

“I should really send the telegram now,” I said, frowning.

“To your wife?”

I shook my head. “No, Peter, I am unmarried. To a friend.”

“I see,” said the lad. He pushed open one of the landing's ornately panelled doors to lead me into a charmingly furnished pale green single bedroom, with tall casement windows offering a splendid view out over the lush rear gardens. “Here you are, I hope you will be comfortable,” said he.

“Thank you very much,” I said, entranced by the vista. For now we were on the first floor I was more able to admire the countryside surrounding us. In the far distance, tall hills rolled and stretched, dotted with rich green forests and pools of shimmering blue at their feet. I gasped at the splendour of it; fumbled with the catch on my window that I might lean out to see more to either side of the cottage. I heard the door click softly behind me, and looked around to find that I was alone in my room. I set to unpacking my few bags, then, to lay certain personal items out and store the rest away. There was a small chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a bedside table which met my needs very well. A basin and ewer of water stood upon a table pushed up against the fireplace wall, and I was relieved to wash away a little of the grime and dust from my travels. I lay down to rest my eyes; I do regret that I drowsed a little and for longer than intended, for I was awoken with a start by a rapping upon the door.

“Come in?”

“Please excuse me, Doctor,” said the mob-capped head which peeped around the door. “Please excuse me, but Mr. Simmons was wondering if you might be willing to join him in the sitting-room? That is, if you are feeling quite refreshed, of course, sir.”

“Oh yes, of course,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “You must be Magda?”

“That I am, Doctor,” said the old lady. “Pleased to have you here with us. Shall I tell Mr. Simmons to expect you shortly?”

“I will be right down,” I nodded. Then: “Oh, my word. Magda, I need to send a telegram at once! Is there anyone who might be able to take it for me, or could you direct me to the village?”

“It is only myself here, Doctor, apart from the master and young Mr. Peter,” replied the lady. “But I should be happy to direct you. You may have the loan of a bicycle if you would prefer not to walk. It would be quicker.”

“That would be wonderful, Magda, thank you,” I said. “I shall be at the front porch in 10 minutes.”

I looked at my pocket-watch. It was 5 o'clock. Holmes would surely be pacing the rug by now, waiting for my message. I hurried into my country jacket and hastened downstairs to speak briefly with Simmons. With a promise that I would return within the half-hour, I took up the bicycle which Magda had waiting for me at the porch, listened attentively to her directions, then was on my way. A short ride led me to a discreet square of shops, businesses and, thankfully, the quiet local telegraph office. I despatched a message to Holmes with apologies, then was headed back along the quiet sunlit path, whistling, carrying an appetite both for dinner and my much anticipated conversation with Charlie Simmons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So now, tell me everything, Simmons,” I said, a short while later, as the two of us relaxed in the sitting-room with our aperitifs. “It has been a dog's age – and I am all ears to hear of your adventures since last I saw you.”

“Ah, Watson,” Simmons replied, shaking his head, “how long _has_ it been, my old friend? Fifteen years? I cannot recall. A number of years before you were discharged, I do know that. I miss your brother; I wish he were still with us. But I digress... I have lived a quiet life, in the main. Upon completing my business studies I founded a company which specialised in the manufacture of artificial knee-caps – Watson, you are smiling, I cannot possibly see what is funny about that – and did well enough to be able to move up to this beautiful part of the Kingdom. I came into a sizeable inheritance five years ago, which enabled me to retire and purchase the property in which we are sitting at this moment. A rural retreat where I might focus upon my bird-watching, my butterflies, my books. It is bliss! Or at least, it was until this wretched illness struck me, Watson. My condition has incapacitated me to a great extent, and I should so very much appreciate your advice.”

“I will certainly offer you that, and more,” said I, touching his shoulder. “But when did you marry, my dear chap, and how about your son? How old is Peter now?”

An expression of sadness passed fleetingly across my friend's face. He shook it off and smiled at me. “Peter is eighteen,” he replied. “Watson, I hope you will not judge me too harshly when I tell you that I did not marry his mother. I fell in love with the lady, but her reputation was tarnished and such that we were bound to keep the relationship a secret from everyone – yes, even from Harold and you. She gave me my Peter, but I am sorry to say that relations between us deteriorated after that to the point where she ran off with another fellow when Peter was not quite two years old, leaving me with the boy. I have raised him alone. He is a fine lad, nonetheless, albeit with some odd ways, but he means well. He has now just completed his boarding-school education and is wondering what to do next with his life.”

“Simmons, old man, I would not dream of passing judgement on you,” I said. “I am rather more deeply sorry that the relationship did not work out between you. Peter does seem to be a most excellent lad, you must be proud of him.”

“Yes, I am proud,” Simmons nodded. “He is very much interested in drawing and architecture, so perhaps his talents might lie in that direction. He is resting this Summer, then he will begin his career search in the Autumn, I expect. What of you, Watson? You have no family of your own yet?”

“No, I do not,” I admitted. “My writing keeps me busy, as well as my casework with Holmes, of course.”

“Sherlock Holmes! Yes, I have read some of your stories, and I admire them very much. Holmes is a clever fellow. But the bachelor life cannot keep you occupied forever, my boy. You are young, still, you should find yourself a wife. Marriage ought not to keep you from your writings or your collaborations with Mr. Holmes.”

“Speaking of Holmes, you said that I would be welcome to invite a guest to join me?” I said, as the thought struck me. “I wonder would it be all right if he might join us at the end of the week? He is busy with casework at the current moment, but would so like to meet you and take a short rest here.”

“Why, absolutely!” said Simmons, clapping his hands together. “We have several guest bedrooms here, it would be no problem whatsoever. I look forward to meeting him. Dear me, I had better brush up on some more of your stories then, eh, Watson, in case I am questioned about them?”

I chuckled. “Holmes would not do that. He teases me unmercifully about my writing. He does not take it very seriously, I am afraid.”

“Ah, well, he should,” replied Simmons. “For you have a decided talent for it.”

Our talk turned to general topics, then, and I counted myself fortunate that I had managed to navigate the subject of marital status without too much mishap. Delicious aromas from Magda's cooking began to seep through from the kitchen, and my stomach growled from them. A roast beef, I imagined, wondering how it might compare with Mrs. Hudson's home-cooking. When our group of three eventually moved through to the dining room, I was not disappointed. The table was immaculately set; the wine was a fine red Burgundy, and the silver tureens at centre were piled high. We set to our meal with enthusiasm, talking much and laughing a great deal. The lad Peter proved himself excellent company, with his tales of boarding-school life and his escapades over these Summer holidays. His father sat quietly and listened to him speak, smiling gently, indulgently, for he must have heard these stories many times before, and yet he did not interject. I responded to the lad's questions regarding life back in London with a few tales of my own, and I spoke of the precise skills and genius of my friend Holmes, which he was very much interested in.

“Every day must be an adventure for you, Doctor,” said he, his eyes sparkling. “A detective's life sounds a thrilling one.” I admit that I found his attentions flattering. It might have been down to the wine. It seemed not to matter.

The evening ended an hour or two later, for I was wearied especially from my long day, and Simmons too was tired, for his head nodded and his eyes struggled to remain open. With a promise that I would attend to him properly first thing upon the morrow, I wished the two of them good night, and made for my bed.

Peter caught up with me at the bedroom door.

“Thank you,” said he, earnestly. “Thank you for visiting us, it is so lovely to have you here.” And he touched my arm most sincerely, it seemed. If the touch lingered, then I did not notice it. And if I found that it took a while for me to fall to sleep thereafter, well, it was merely from the wine. For sleep, eventually, did come.


	4. Chapter 4

_My dearest H,_

 _My first morning here at Goldenrod Cottage. The weather is glorious – not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful countryside, the most delicious food and excellent company. Simmons's condition is no worse, it appears to be a case of over-exertion, but I shall keep a watchful eye over him. He seems quite rested this morning. He has a teenaged son! Peter is his name. He is utterly charming. Simmons says that you will be a welcome guest whenever you can free yourself. How is your casework progressing? Am missing you a great deal. I intend on taking a long hike today, Peter says that he will show me the best pathways to take – I am lucky to have such a guide!_

 _Reply soonest.  
Ever yours..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There is nothing fundamentally wrong with your heart, Simmons,” I said, as I placed my stethoscope to one side and looked to my friend. “It seems to me that these palpitations are brought on by over-exertion, and you simply need to slow down, old fellow. Take things easier -- you are retired now; there is no need to rush around. I suppose you have been chasing all over the Lakes after those birds and butterflies?”

Simmons appeared irritated. “That is likely it,” said he, “but Watson, it is imperative that I regain my strength, and that this sort of thing never happens again. There must be a medication that you could prescribe? A herbal remedy, or a preventative? I must be fit again, I really must.”

His passion alarmed me. I considered his question. “I should not like to prescribe anything if all it takes is simple good rest to put you back on your feet,” I replied, slowly. “Any regular ingestion of unnecessary medication could do more harm than good. I would, however, recommend abstaining from stimulants such as coffee, alcohol and tobacco, which will only aggravate your symptoms.”

Simmons threw up his hands. “Pah!” he snorted, “you say the same as the other doctors, with all of their ridiculous flimflam and blood tests. I was hoping you might be different. But it is possible that you have still misdiagnosed, yes? I have only just arisen, after all, and that might affect the result? Examine me again at lunchtime.”

“Of course,” I said, to appease him. “I should like to see the reports from your previous doctors, if you could prepare them for me? Thank you. I shall be heading into the village to post a letter this morning, and then intend to enjoy a long country walk, but I shall return for lunch. Peter says that he is familiar with a very scenic pathway by the lakeside.”

“That should be nice,” said Simmons, distractedly. “Then in the afternoon, perhaps we might play a game of Chess, or some Billiards? Good. Then I shall look forward to it. Until lunchtime, Watson.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and I made our leisurely stroll to the post office, where I despatched my letter to Holmes. The lad glanced at the address upon the envelope as I slid it across the counter, but he said nothing until we were out in the Square again and making for the walkway.

“You are indeed close friends,” he remarked, carelessly, “for you to be sending a telegram one day and a letter the very next. Does Mr. Holmes worry for your safety in this crime-ridden corner of the country?” And he laughed; but his tone was without malice, rather that of gentle amusement. I looked askance at him all the same, for it seemed overly curious.

“Mr. Holmes does not worry,” I replied, “but he does take interest in where I travel and with whom I should meet; it is in his nature to do so. And I am an enthusiastic correspondent,” I added, with a smile.

Peter said nothing for several minutes until we had left the main lane and headed off onto the path which would signpost us towards the lake. We stepped past crops of unwieldy bushy bracken and over fallen tree branches, at which the pathway widened and then opened out at once upon the beautiful pool of blue. A number of small sailing vessels were dotted randomly upon it, making their leisurely circuit of the water. I estimated it would take us a good hour to walk around the circumference.

“It is beautiful,” I exclaimed. Peter took my arm and led me across an uneven stretch of earth and bush until we looked out directly upon the water.

“Breathe,” said he, “doesn't it smell so fresh!”

I inhaled deeply. “Yes, it really does,” I said. “I imagine that this would make the most perfect landscape painting. Have you ever brought a sketchpad here, Peter?”

“No, no,” he replied, “I cannot draw. I just walk, or sit and watch the people pass by.”

I looked at him curiously. “Your father said you were a keen artist,” I said, scratching my chin.

“Oh. Well, I doodle,” said he, falteringly, “but I am not very good at it.”

“Is it not your ambition to be an architect?” I persisted.

“I... don't know,” he replied. Then: “Look! That boat just capsized! Ha ha! The fellow is splashing around. Oh, he is all right, he is quite close to the shore, he is wading out now.”

I gave up pursuing the topic any further. Peter set off at a brisk pace by the lakeside, and I had to break a trot to keep up. We spoke a little more of boarding-school, of his friends there, and how he missed them now that he had left full-time education. I asked several questions regarding his father, but he was coy and reluctant to talk other than to express affection for his parent, and how lucky he was to be on such good terms with his, when so many other chaps his age were apparently at constant war with theirs.

“Your father's health must be a worry for you, Peter,” I said, as we came eventually around the last swoop of the lake and back towards our entry path. “I am sure that he will recover completely. He just needs rest.”

“Yes,” the lad replied, frowning. “I expect so. I say, do you fancy an ice-cream?”

He charged ahead to the small booth set up by the pathway, and returned triumphant with two strawberry ices. “It won't put you off your lunch,” he said, laughing, “we will have walked it off by the time we get back home.”

His fingers brushed casually against mine as he passed one ice across. The touch meant nothing, although my skin felt the shock of it; it was my imagination.

“I do like your moustache,” he said, licking around his cone. “I am not sure one would suit me, though.” Another lick. “Have you ever grown a beard?”

“Never,” I replied, half amused by the cheek of him.

“Ever used brilliantine? I wonder if I should try it...”

“Rarely. You could if you felt like it.”

“Ever had a lady friend?”

“Peter,” I said warningly, alert, “that really is not an appropriate topic for conversation.”

“I am sorry,” said the lad, contritely. “I just wondered.”

I took my watch out of my waistcoat pocket, saw that it was almost half-past eleven. “Come on,” I said, nodding my head towards the exit path, “I am supposed to be meeting with your father at midday, and it would not do to be late.”

And we finished our ices, leaving the lake and its platoon of strolling admirers behind us, and set forth for home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doctor? Doctor Watson?” Magda met us in the hallway, an envelope clutched in her right hand. “You have a telegram, Doctor! I hope nothing is amiss.”

“Thank you, Magda.” I accepted the message, already guessing as to whom it was from. I would read it here rather than take it upstairs, for I might need to reply straightaway, after all.

YOUR MESSAGE RECEIVED LATE STOP TRUST A LETTER WILL FOLLOW OR MUST I BEG STOP THINGS HERE BUSY AND DREADFUL STOP SH

I smiled despite the mild rebuke, and my heart panged.

“Is there a reply, Doctor?” Magda asked, anxiously tugging her apron front.

“No, there is no reply,” I said, “but thank you.”

I turned and saw that Peter was craning his neck to read over my shoulder.

“Is it from Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “Is he checking up on you?”

“Never you mind,” said I. “It is not an emergency, at any rate.”

I changed out of my jacket, and deposited it along with the telegram in my bedroom. I washed my face and hands, and walked downstairs to join Simmons in the Games room. The fellow was playing Billiards alone, humming a soft tune all the while he struck cannons. He looked up as I entered, and waved.

“There you are, Watson,” said he, “it is almost time for lunch, but I thought that I would squeeze in a little practice now before you thrash me later. You were always so good at this game.”

I laughed. “I do not play as often as I used to, Simmons. Holmes is not a games man, and therefore the only opportunity I get is when I visit my club and find myself a friendly opponent. My word, what a glorious view out onto the gardens we have here!”

A pair of handsome French windows opened out onto a small patio, which connected via a few stone steps down into the rear garden. A bathing pool was prominent to one side, while to the other were sets of round tables and lawn chairs. I imagined that some very jolly parties might be held here during the Summer; I wondered then if Simmons had indeed held any this year, or if he was as inclined to solitude as I might believe.

“I did not bring a bathing suit,” I murmured, half to myself, half to the bathing pool. I heard Simmons chuckle behind me.

“I might be able to find a spare suit that you could borrow, Watson,” said he. “Or you could take an excursion into the main village and see what's available there, if you preferred. Peter is very keen on swimming.”

“He is the most inquisitive boy,” I smiled at Simmons. To my surprise, my friend's face darkened.

“Inquisitive? In what way is he inquisitive?” he asked.

“Well, in the usual ways that a young lad might be, I suppose,” I replied, taken aback. “He asked nothing that might offend, I assure you,” I added. This was mostly true. Simmons's face smoothed.

“That is all right then,” said he. “I should be upset if I learned that he was causing you any awkwardness. As you say, he is at that age when everything is a question. Why this, why that, why not....” Simmons shook his head. He placed his cue to one side and came towards me. “Would you mind re-examining me now, my dear fellow? Oh, I am sorry, you do not have your stethoscope with you? Is it very much of a bother?”

“It is none at all,” I replied, “I shall just go and fetch it. Wait for me one minute.”

When I returned, Simmons was seated in a chair by the French windows, a few sheets of typewritten paper upon the table beside him.

“These are my last test results,” he said, handing them to me. “I would be wary of placing too much faith in them, Watson.”

I examined the papers. They concurred almost exactly with my own diagnosis, of simple over-exertion. Nevertheless, I placed my stethoscope against my friend's chest once again, and listened to his heartbeat. I performed a small number of other tests, asked more questions, then sat down beside my patient.

“My diagnosis does not differ from those experts with whom you initially consulted,” I said, gently. “You are a healthy man, for your age, but you simply _cannot_ continue with the level of strenuous exercise which has brought you to this state. I must insist upon this point, my friend.”

Simmons sighed deeply; he clasped his hand to his forehead briefly, then looked up at me. “Then that is all there is to it,” he said. “I must rest. I must not force myself.”

“That is right,” I said. “You seem stronger this morning, which pleases me. A couple more days and you should feel quite yourself again.”

“Stay the fortnight out, all the same,” he urged. “I would not wish to step back from my promise to you and your friend Mr. Holmes. You are very welcome to enjoy your holiday here with us.”

“Thank you, Simmons,” I said, “that is indeed kind of you. I confess that I have grown very fond of your countryside already.”

“Not only the countryside, eh eh,” remarked Simmons, struggling to his feet to reclaim his cue, sweeping it across the Billiard table to gather up the ivory balls.

I was sure that I did not have the faintest notion as to what he might be inferring.


	5. Chapter 5

_My dearest H,_

 _I am writing this from the shade of an umbrella table here in the rear gardens of the cottage. It is a heavenly warm evening! My walk with Peter this morning was most enjoyable – the lakes here are spectacular, I cannot wait for you to see them. Peter has many tales to tell about his school-days boarding at Wetherby; he seems to miss the place so very much. Simmons improves steadily. I may venture a swim shortly – there is a bathing pool right here in the garden! Peter tells me he has an excellent front crawl. Is there any indication yet as to when you might be able to join us? I miss you._

 _Ever yours..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was addressing the envelope when Peter emerged from the light streaming out of the open French windows to join me at my lawn table. He was sipping from a cup of coffee, smoking a long, thin cigarette. He blinked lazily as he sat down beside me.

“Another letter,” he mused, pulling the ashtray towards him.

“Yes,” I said. “It is such a pleasant evening that I think I might bicycle to the post office to despatch it.”

“You had better hurry, then,” said the lad, “if they are not closed already. Will you be swimming later on?”

“I hope so.”

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I am not sure yet,” I replied. “I was thinking of asking Magda if she might prepare a picnic lunch for me, and then take myself up into the hills for the day. The view from the summit of that great peak to our east must be spectacular.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Would you care for company?”

“Your father might not appreciate your disappearing for the entire day, Peter,” I said, although the thought did quite appeal to me. “Do you have no obligations here?”

The boy sighed and threw down the stub of his cigarette, crushing it beneath his heel. I stared blankly at the ashtray upon the table. “There is nothing,” he said, “and I get so bored just sitting around here, with father the way he is. I would very much like to walk with you tomorrow. Shall I talk to father and Magda for us? And you can go and post your silly letter.”

“All right,” I nodded. I pocketed my letter and stood up to leave. The bicycle ride took only a few minutes, and I found myself fortunate to catch the post office clerk just before he locked up. With my second letter of the day to Holmes now safely en route, I made my return, arriving home within fifteen minutes of leaving. As I entered the cottage I immediately heard raised voices from the direction of the sitting-room. Straining my ears, it seemed as though Simmons and his son were having the most unpleasant altercation. The argument tailed off abruptly as I stepped towards the open door, but I could not help but catch disjointed words from it: _affair... will not tolerate... Holmes..._ My heart lurched as I heard that brief mention of my friend; I wondered in what context his name had been spoken. Anxious, I tapped at the door and peered in. Father and son were standing by the unlit fireplace; the elder with his hands upon his hips, his legs spread slightly in anger. The lad was staring down his father in defiance. They both swung around at the sight of me.

“I am most terribly sorry,” I began, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

Simmons reined himself in with an effort. He smiled; an awkward grimace. “No, no,” said he, brushing his hand back across his hair, “there is no problem, none at all. Peter and I were discussing some personal matters. Nothing to concern yourself about, Watson, my dear chap.”

“Peter and I were thinking of taking a walk in the hills tomorrow,” I said, keen to clear the air, as I felt the atmosphere was intolerably frosty. “We should so like to have you join us, if you would be feeling well enough. We could detour so that the walk is not so very long, or the climb so arduous. It would be quite--”

“No, that is all right,” interrupted Simmons, moving from the fireplace towards his chair by the window. “After all, Watson, it was you who recommended rest. It would hardly do for me to be jumping around the hillside now, would it. The two of you go, and enjoy yourselves.”

“Very well,” I said, concerned still. “If you are sure of it.”

“I am,” said my friend. He smiled then at the two of us, and picked up his book from the table-stand. “This is an excellent read,” said he, holding up the illegible and faded front cover. “I think that I shall sit here for an hour and enjoy a few chapters of it.”

Outside in the hall I beckoned to Peter, looking a little surly still but brightening now he had escaped from his scolding.

“Is everything all right between you and your father, Peter?”

“Oh yes,” said the lad, “he is just over-tired and irritable. He will be quite cheerful again tomorrow morning, wait and see. Shall we have that swim now?”

The water was deliciously cool. The pool was only waist-deep at both ends, but large enough for two bathers to swim a few strokes without collision. A narrow underwater ledge on one inside wall of the pool allowed the swimmer to sit and rest without need to climb out of the water. It was here that Peter and I now came to a stop, after 10 minutes of lengths with the soothing glow of the evening upon our backs.

“Are you in more of a mood to answer my question now?” said the lad, his fingers splashing softly at the surface of the water. Observing my puzzled expression he added: “It was about if you had ever thought of marriage, or been very fond of a lady.” Splash, splash.

I was relaxed by the warmth of the swim, the gentle ripple of the water. I found myself considering the question rather more seriously now.

“No, I have never proposed marriage, nor met a lady with whom I would consider it a possibility,” I replied, honestly.

“You have been in love, though?” Peter pressed further.

“Did I not just answer your question?”

“I do not think that you did, Doctor.”

I closed my eyes. “Yes, then.”

“That must be jolly,” said he, quietly. He had stopped splashing. “I shall never marry,” he added, boldly.

“Ah, you say that now, young Peter,” I replied, smiling, opening one eye, “but you shall meet someone one day, and fall in love.”

“I did not say that I had never met anyone, or never fallen in love,” said he, briskly, “I merely said that I am not of the inclination to wed.”

I looked at him then. “You are in love, Peter?”

The boy nodded. “But it is difficult,” he said, frowning. “And I do not think that it will work out.”

I raised my hand to ruffle his wet scrag of blond hair. “Those are sombre words for one who is still so young,” I said. “Does the girl not live locally?”

He laughed, bitterly, but said nothing. We were quiet for a minute, until I began to feel the evening air chill upon my shoulders as the last light faded from the sky.

“We had best dry off and get dressed,” I said, moving off the ledge, “and then join your father in the sitting-room for a game of cards, perhaps.”

And we drew ourselves up from the pool, dried ourselves down, and made our way into the bright light of the cottage to while away the remainder of the evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RECEIVED YOUR LETTER STOP AM SO THRILLED YOU FIND PETER UTTERLY CHARMING STOP IT SOUNDS AS THOUGH YOU ARE HAVING A COSY TIME OF IT STOP MEANWHILE I AM STILL WORKING STOP SH

I refolded the telegram sheet inside the envelope. My breakfast eggs had set solid due to the number of times I had read and re-read the message, determining whether Holmes's words were intended sarcastically or not. I nibbled my toast, lending only half an ear to the early morning chatter of my two companions beside me at the table.

“If Magda is up to her usual standard today, then your picnic will be a banquet,” Simmons was saying, as he took the teapot to pour out fresh cups for us all. “And she has never let us down yet. You will be so stuffed that you might not make it back down the hill again.” And he laughed, and we joined him, for relieved we both were, I think, Peter and I, that his father's temper was returned quite to the usual this morning. The weather was perfect for our hill walk – not blisteringly hot, but warm with a breeze – and as we pushed back our chairs from the table to made ready to leave, the housekeeper bustled through with a loaded knapsack in her arms.

“Your lunch, gentlemen,” said she, with a cheery smile. “And I do not wish to see any of it returned to me come the end of the day.”

“You can count on us, Magda, dear,” said Peter, kissing her upon the cheek, and accepting the sack. “You are so very thoughtful always.”

I gathered up my field-glasses, an umbrella, a compass and a waterproof jacket – for the weather in the Lakes was well known for its unpredictability. Simmons stood at the front door to see us off.

“Enjoy your day,” he said. He touched my shoulder, and retreated back inside the cottage.

I caught up with Peter at the gate, admiring his elegance as he leaned over the post with his chin cupped in one hand, waiting for me. “Let's go,” he said, straightening up, and we stepped out onto the lane together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour of brisk walking saw us only just making headway into the low valleys and crests at the foot of the hill. A well-weathered track made a gentle ascent up one side and across for some considerable distance, the return path curving back down and around. Not a soul had we met upon our travel, for this was not one of the better-known hikes. My companion was quieter now, seemingly intent upon his bootlaces and the small pebbles and twigs which he kicked out of his way as we steadily climbed. The sun was shining through the trees, casting dappled shadows upon the path. When after a further hour we came upon a flat open level of lush grasses and bush, Peter flung himself down upon a nearby fallen tree-trunk, and hoisted the knapsack from his shoulders with a great show of relief.

“Might we rest a little?” he asked. He rummaged in the sack. “Shall we have a drink?”

Even from our low vantage point the view was quite breathtaking. The area was deserted, still and quiet, save for birdsong and humming bees. I fished inside the knapsack for one of Magda's carefully wrapped packets of sandwiches – egg & watercress, beef & mustard, cheese & pickle – and accepted a glass of orange from Peter. And so we sat looking out over the vast expanse of green shade beyond us.

“You are quiet this morning, Peter,” I remarked, after a little time spent sitting there.

The lad looked at me, shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I am,” he said. “Perhaps it is because I do not know how to say what I want to.”

I regarded him. “What is it you wish to say?”

He scowled, flushed, bit down upon a corner of meat pie.

“Come on, now, Peter,” said I, “you cannot make a statement like that and then leave the subject hanging.”

“I don't see why I should not,” he flung back, mouth still full of pastry. “After all, I don't know how you would react.” He swallowed. “You have told me next to nothing about yourself, after all.”

“But what is that supposed to mean? I have told you many things. I have been here but a couple of days. What is it that you wish to know?”

On occasion it is that the metaphorical penny takes a little longer than it ought to drop. When eventually it does so, then it is with a spinning clatter. Peter must have noticed the change in my expression, for he looked away suddenly as if in conflict. Then, resolute, he sprang back and towards me, gripping both my shoulders, and before I could do a thing about it, had planted a firm kiss upon my lips. Immediately, and as though stung, he retreated to his log and hung his head.

“I am sorry,” said he.

I was struck for what to say or to think. I almost thought that I should like another kiss. That was immediately crossed out by a flash of hot guilt.

“It is all right, Peter,” I said, flustered – for true enough, even Inspector Gregson had not taken such liberty -- “but it must not happen again. I suppose this is what you have been attempting to confess this past day?”

“What will you do with me now?” he asked, sounding miserable. “Report me to my father?”

“For a youthful indiscretion? No, I will not do that.”

He flashed me a grateful glance.

“We shall go on as though such a thing never occurred,” I added, firmly but kindly. “Come now,” I stooped to gather up the detritus of our picnic and to place it back into the knapsack, “let us turn back, for I imagine that it will take us a couple of hours of walking to get home.”

In fact, it took a little less, of course, for the downward slope rather aided our pace. The return walk was no less quiet than the outbound, although not uncomfortable, surprisingly, given the revelation. By two o'clock we had arrived back at the cottage, and shucked off our walking boots, set down our loads.

I noticed a telegram envelope propped up upon the hall table. It was addressed to me; I knew almost without needing to glance at the front of it. I tore open the envelope and read the contents, at which my heart all but jumped into my mouth. This was the message:

RECEIVED YOUR SECOND LETTER STOP DISTURBING ON SEVERAL LEVELS STOP AM TYING UP BUSINESS HERE AND JOINING YOU IMMEDIATELY STOP SHALL ARRIVE TOMORROW AFTERNOON LATEST STOP SH

And that second sentence repeated itself over to me on a loop as I climbed the staircase to my bedroom, my head in a quandary.


	6. Chapter 6

“This is excellent news, Watson! I am so very pleased!” Simmons beamed.

I had just informed him of Holmes's impending arrival. Never had I seen the man so immediately charged to action. He called out instructions for Magda to make up the second guest bedroom. He demanded that she visit the village first thing in the morning and return with Holmes's favourite foods and refreshments. He scuttled to the drinks cabinet and proceeded to push the glass decanters and bottles around, peering at the labels.

“Tell me, Watson, what does Mr. Holmes prefer? Brandy or whisky? Is he a wine connoisseur? And for dinner, what should it be: chicken or beef? I shall ask Magda to cook a fine meal for us all tomorrow evening! What a surprise for us that he has finished his work so very much sooner than expected, eh eh!”

“Yes, indeed,” I said, smiling. “I shall, of course, meet Holmes at the station and return with him here, so you must not worry about arrangements in that area.”

Peter was sitting glumly at the bare dining table in the meanwhile, drumming his fingers in a dispirited pattern upon the top of it. He did not look at his father or join in with our conversation. Occasionally he would glance at me, an inscrutable expression upon his face, before folding back into his brown study. For my part, I was unable to clear my mind of what had passed earlier in the day: the look in the boy's eyes before he laid his hands upon my shoulders... the touch of his lips upon mine. The memory of it still lingered, tingled.

“Do excuse me, Simmons, my dear fellow,” I said, abruptly. “I am feeling quite fatigued after my long walk, and I think that I should like to take an hour's rest in my room, if that is all right with you.”

“Of course! Go right ahead,” my friend said, still distracted by his preparations. “I shall see you later on, then. Yes. Do have a pleasant nap.”

I closed the door to my room, undid the top buttons of my shirt, slipped out of my shoes and fell back upon the bed. I shut my eyes tight and did my best to clear my head. Holmes would be here tomorrow. I could not be so frayed when I met him off the train, for he would see through my agitation within a second, and it would be much the worse for me if he did so. But I had not done anything wrong. I had not. The lad had kissed me; I had taken no part other than my surprised reaction. I had politely rebuffed the advance. I had nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about. And yet. And yet, I had enjoyed the fleeting kiss. Damn it, yes, I had. I lay there on my bed, staring at the white painted swirl of the ceiling; wanting, not wanting, I did not know what. And the shame came, then, along with the guilt.

I managed to sleep, a little. I remained in my room for longer than I had intended, and yet no-one disturbed me; I was left to my rest. When at four o'clock I hauled myself from my pillows to splash some clean water onto my face, the weather outside had turned inclement. It was raining: great heavy drops which thundered down the window pane in thick rivulets and hammered upon the flat roofs of the outbuildings. There would be no swim this evening, I thought.

After dinner, which the three of us spent quite pleasantly -- for the food was so delicious that we might easily talk of nothing else but that – we retired to the sitting-room. Simmons produced a board-game; we spent some considerable time reading the rules and setting up the pieces, and a greater while tossing the die and shunting our counters around the maze. We played a few hands of Gin Rummy. I was unable to concentrate much on anything. By eleven o'clock I was covering my yawns, apologising, and how I really should be retiring to my bed after such a long day, but oh how pleasant it had all been! Simmons smiled, bade me a good night. Peter, too, seemed to be having difficulty in keeping his eyes open. I supposed that the cottage would be early to bed all round this evening.

Upstairs once more, I changed into my nightshirt and slipped between the sheets. I kept the gas lamp burning, for I fancied I might read for a time. My great show of yawns had been cover for my escape, therefore I saw little point in dousing the light and attempting to sleep if sleep might not come. As I propped myself up on my pillows and opened my book, I heard Simmons's heavy tread on the stair, then the click of his door shutting behind him. A minute later, there too was Peter's softer step on the landing, and the sound of his door softly closing. And then silence. The cottage began to settle down for the night. The old rafters above creaked and groaned; the floorboards cracked, the water pipes ticked. I read one chapter, but my book could not hold my attention. I was just wondering whether to turn out my lamp when I heard a slight noise from the landing. I listened intently. There it was again. If my hearing was not so acute then I should not have caught it at all.

My doorknob began to turn. I froze, staring at it as it slowly revolved, the door beginning to push inwards. The landing was dark, naturally, so I could not see straight away who my visitor was. Then the figure moved closer, and I saw that it was Peter. Our eyes met; he halted, uncertain. I did not speak. The lad turned his head back into the darkness, looked to left and to right, and then made his decision and slipped into my room, closing the door silently. He was wearing a long dark-blue dressing-gown; his hair was perfectly combed still, he did not appear to have slept.

“I wanted to see you,” he whispered. He moved towards the bed. I withdrew instinctively into the centre of it, frowning.

“But whatever for, Peter?” I asked, scarcely above a strangled hiss. “I made it quite clear to you this afternoon that there could be no repeat of... that. Please understand this, my boy. I should hate for there to be any unpleasantness --”

Peter sighed, sat down upon the edge of the bed. His gown slipped a little, revealing a length of smooth milky-white thigh. I was transfixed by it.

“You need to leave,” I insisted. “You are eighteen years old, you are too young for _any_ of this, and I am not a free man, and this is simply not --”

“I know what I am doing,” the lad interrupted. His face was flushed, his breathing quick, through nervousness or agitation, I could not tell. “You've been looking at me all day. You mustn't patronise me like this.”

“ _Patronise_ you?” I hissed, sitting straight up in bed now, “What on earth? Listen to me. This will end in a sorry mess if your father hears us talking and charges through here. What will he think?! It would be disastrous. You _have_ to leave now.”

“Father sleeps like a stone,” the lad replied, “and he is asleep now, I heard him snore as I passed by his door.”

He stood then, untied the cord of his dressing-gown and opened it. He was quite naked beneath it. He was beautiful.

“Do you want me? You can have me. It will be our last chance before your friend arrives tomorrow. I won't shout out. _Please_. I want to so much.”

“Can you hear yourself, what you are saying?” I was scandalised by it, by him, by his body. I wanted him to leave, to get out of my room, and to never set eyes on him again. I also wanted to take him, take his body, fuck him, until he howled. But – “Get out. Get out now.” Louder. To alarm him. It worked. Thank God. He replaced his robe, tied the cord, looked down, away, anywhere but at me.

“All right then,” said he, “I will go. You don't know what you just missed. I would have pleased you. Goodnight,” he added quickly, and opened the door, disappearing through it. I leapt from my bed within a moment, to the door, to turn the key in the lock – quietly, as quietly as I could – and then back in-between the covers. I was trembling, unable to stand myself. Were all men this weak, when confronted with physical beauty and an available, willing body? How many men in such a position would have taken advantage? Most? Some? All? I turned out the lamp, lay back, and turned my thoughts instead towards my love. Tomorrow. I would see my love tomorrow. He would be here, with me, and there would be no more of this terrible intrusive nonsense. Everything would be well. Dear God, I hoped so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was late to rise the following morning. By ten o'clock I had washed, dressed and missed breakfast by an impossible margin. Simmons was sitting at the dining table yet, however, with the morning newspaper spread out before him. Peter was nowhere in sight.

“My goodness, you did sleep well, Watson,” he called out, by way of greeting. “I am sorry that you have missed breakfast, for our Magda served up the most excellent ham. Perhaps if we ring for her now, she might be able to bring through a dish? No? Well, at least I have a fresh pot of tea here, and you are most welcome to a cupful of that.”

I sat down at the table and sipped at a cup of sweet tea. I had not the faintest idea as to how to begin any conversation now, and even less of a one as to how I might spend the intervening hours until my departure for the train station to meet Holmes. Although the heavy rain had subsided, a drizzle persisted, and the air outside was heavy and damp. As it was, Simmons did not appear to notice my tied tongue, engrossed as he was with his sports pages. I excused myself after a second cup of tea, to spend some time in the games room with the Billiards table.

To my great relief, I did not see Peter for the rest of the morning; nor did I enquire as to where he might be. Simmons and I dined on a luncheon of cold meat and salad, after which I decided that it was time I made my way to the station, for my intention was to walk and the journey would take over an hour. The clouds were clearing, finally, as I set off down the lane, and I felt my spirits begin to lift despite myself. As I drew closer to my destination, my heart quickened all the same in its anxiety. Glancing at my pocket-watch I saw that it was almost a quarter to three, with Holmes's train, the first arrival from London, due in on the hour. I picked up my speed, arriving on the station platform with time to spare. Only a small number of people were waiting alongside me, and we regarded each other casually, as the great clock hanging above our heads ticked steadily towards the hour. Eventually, we heard the puffing of steam, the shrill whistle, and then the train itself emerging through the haze: slowing down, gradually, coming to a halt upon the buffers. A moment's pause, and then the doors commenced to open, spilling out passengers and luggage. My eyes searched each face eagerly, looking for my friend, and then – at last – there he was. At the far end of the platform, suitcase in hand, his tall, graceful figure heading in my direction.

I raised my hand. He saw me, and accelerated, a half-smile upon his face. Then he was level, setting down his case and pulling me to him in a rough hug, to release me sharply.

“You did not reply to my last telegram,” said he. “I did not know if you would be here to meet me.” He sounded aggrieved.

“How could you think that I would not be?” I asked. Then, whispering: “I have missed you so much.”

He nodded, his lips set, eyes darting around the platform as though scanning for listening ears. No-one was paying us any mind; they were all very much occupied with their own greetings and departures.

“Your letters were intolerable,” he said, taking up his case once more.

“I am sorry if you thought that,” I replied, a little hurt, “but nevertheless I did write them. You wrote me no letters at all.”

“I am not a letter-writer,” said Holmes. “But I was hoping for a little more from you than Peter, Peter, bloody Peter.” He looked at me sharply, then. I felt my skin colour, and decided I must steer my friend well away from that wretched name.

“Come,” I said, with a light touch to his arm, “let us not waste any more time here. Let us go and find a carriage, as the cottage is a little drive away yet.”

We secured ourselves a carriage, after some small trouble. As soon as we were on our way, the fresh breeze whipping through our hair, Holmes turned to me, his eyes narrowed and set for confrontation.

“How is Simmons?” he asked.

“He is recovering nicely,” I nodded. “He really did not need me here at all, for his own doctors have told him nothing more than I myself have been able. A case of simple fatigue due to continuous over-exertion. He enjoys many outdoor pursuits. But I have given him my advice and he appears to be following it, and all for the good.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes. “And the boy? What of him?”

“Peter has just completed his boarding-school studies, and he is holidaying for a while at home before deciding on a career path, so I am informed. He is a lively lad,” I added, searching blindly for a neutral descriptive.

“Hmm.” Again. “How old is he?”

“He is eighteen,” I replied, uncomfortably, looking fixedly ahead at the back of our driver. I felt Holmes's eyes boring into me. “And Magda is our wonderful housekeeper and cook,” I finished. “She really is a marvel, Holmes. And your room is prepared and ready for you, although I have not seen it. I believe it is the one directly next to mine.”

“Where is Simmons's room, in relation?”

“His room is at the opposite end of the landing, farthest from the stairs,” I said, looking at him now. “Simmons is a heavy sleeper.”

Holmes tutted in annoyance. “I was not asking for _that_ particular reason,” said he. “And the housekeeper's room?”

“The attic. Is all this of any importance?”

“I do not know yet,” said he. “How could I, when you have provided me with so little relevant data?”

He was angry with me, still. He might be angrier yet. We exchanged no further words until the carriage pulled into the driveway some little time later, whereupon Sherlock Holmes stepped down, for the first time, into the picturesque grounds of Goldenrod Cottage.


	7. Chapter 7

Simmons was there to greet us as we stepped into the hall. He grasped Holmes's hand warmly and asked after his health, and for several minutes the two of them were engaged in the usual pleasantries. Holmes seemed much interested in our host and his surroundings, and indicated that a more comprehensive discussion regarding the history of the cottage would be welcome at a later point.

“Well, that would be delightful, Mr. Holmes,” said Simmons, “although I am not sure how very much I could tell you that might be of interest, for I have only lived here a few years myself. But it is beautiful, is it not? I am so glad that you like it.”

Simmons turned to me, then. “Watson, my dear chap, I don't suppose that you have seen Peter, have you, either on your way out or on your return?”

“I am afraid that I have not seen him at all today,” I replied, shaking my head. “Where do you suppose he might have vanished to?”

Simmons raised his hands. “I really have no idea,” said he. “Well, he will show up when he feels like it, I am sure. I do hope that he will not be late for dinner. Anyway – do allow me to show you to your room, Mr. Holmes, so that you may settle in and make yourself comfortable.”

I followed the two of them up the stairs, and a few steps along the landing to the bedroom door to the left of my own, as I had supposed. Simmons swung it open, and we stepped inside. The room was similar in layout, as well as having an identical set of furniture, and the same large casement windows which overlooked the rear gardens. The colour-scheme in this instance was a cool and restful shade of blue.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, looking around, having set his suitcase down beside the door. “What a pleasant room. If you would not mind excusing us now, Simmons, Watson and I have a great deal to discuss. Casework from London, you understand, I am sure. We shall be downstairs presently.”

Simmons nodded and smiled, and backed out of the room, and we listened to his footsteps retreating back down the stairs to the hall. There was silence. Holmes turned and flung himself back upon the bed, where he lay with his head propped up on one hand, regarding me.

“Holmes,” I began, moving towards him. He thrust out his other hand, indicating I stay back.

“No,” he said, “don't. Tell me what is going on with you first. You are nervous, and I want to know why.”

“It is nothing,” I said, in the vain hope that he would somehow believe me. “It is just that I have missed you so much, and --”

“So you keep telling me,” snapped Holmes, “and yet there is something amiss. Is it to do with Peter, perhaps?”

“I have done nothing,” I whispered, desperately. “Nothing has happened. He is just a boy.”

“And yet by your behaviour one might almost suppose that you had succeeded in your ambition of having a child.”

“That remark is quite unworthy of you, Holmes,” I said, bitterly hurt, for despite all that occurred, with the myriad of temptations placed in front of me, I had remained faithful. I rubbed my hand over my face. I walked over to the window and stared out of it, through the wet streaks. I heard the bedsprings creak softly behind me, a moment, and then a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around my waist, and a sharp chin rested itself on my left shoulder.

“I am sorry,” said he, with an effort. “I spoke without care. I trust you. And I have missed you too, you know. Very much. You must tell me the reason for your anxiety, though. Is there something troubling you?”

I sighed, and turned around with difficulty -- for Holmes was gripping me tight and reluctant to relinquish his hold.

“The lad took a fancy to me. We went walking... he surprised me by kissing me.” I closed my eyes. When I opened them again I saw that Holmes's expression remained impassive. I continued. “I did not react or encourage him. I confess that the incidents have left me unsettled, however, although I am quite certain that the boy means no harm, nor will he take his notions any further now that you are here. Please do not be harsh with him, Holmes. He is young and impetuous, as I was too, at that age.”

“Although I should hope that you were not in the habit of kissing older gentlemen at random, and against their wishes,” said Holmes, with dry asperity. “I am rather looking forward to meeting young Master Peter now, I must confess.”

“You must not say anything,” I begged, “in case Simmons should hear of it. Who knows what he would do to the boy – he might throw him out onto the streets. I could not bear for that to happen.”

Holmes released me, moved to the bed and sat down upon it. “Simmons interests me greatly,” he said. “Watson, I think there is a mystery here that I would very much like to get to the bottom of before our leaving.”

“A crime?” I gasped.

“No, my dear fellow. Did I say a crime? A _mystery_. There is one point which intrigues me, and I dare say that more will be revealed after the son returns home.”

“Do we need to stay very much longer? I think that I should prefer to get back to Baker Street, than be in an awkward atmosphere here, to be truthful, Holmes.”

“And do you have any idea how many confounded strings I had to pull to finish work on those two cases in London before I was able to travel here to be with you?” My friend lay back, his long legs dangling down from the edge of the bed. “You owe me a few days of sunshine and country relaxation, I think, Watson.”

“I could tell you what I'd rather owe you, this very minute,” I said, softly, and moved to lock the door and then advanced to the bed, straddling his body and leaning forward, gazing into those large grey eyes which blinked and fluttered as though I had flicked some small switch on his side. My lips brushed against his ear; my tongue flickered inside it. He moaned, twisted his head away.

“Your timing is appalling,” he muttered. “Damn it, John, it is the middle of the afternoon! Again! You are like a dog on heat! If you think that I am going to – Ah!”

“There is something we have not tried yet, you know,” I sang into his bitten ear.

Holmes looked at me, alarmed. “I do _not_ want to do _that_ , I have made that quite clear on several occasions --”

“No, not _that_. Good lord, Holmes. I meant _this_.” And I rocked back against him, a maddening, slow, circling rhythm.

Holmes gaped. “You want me to...?” he asked. I nodded. “Why now?” he asked, curious. “You never wanted it before.” The idea intrigued him, I did not doubt it, for I felt him stir, push up against me.

“Well, we had found the roles we were most comfortable with,” I said, smiling, “and neither of us cared to swerve from that ideal. I have experienced this particular act only very rarely, I assure you, and it was many years ago. But if it would please you to take the Captain's seat for once...” I broke off laughing, as he swatted at me with both hands.

“You are such a brat,” said he, his deep chuckles reverberating against me. “I can't think what it is that I see in you. You impossible man.”

“I could say likewise, my love,” I replied, happy to see his mood so lifted now. “I want you inside me,” I whispered, teasing. He moaned again, desperate, clutching, seeming to pull yet simultaneously push me away from him.

“Not in the middle of the _afternoon_ , John,” he managed to gasp. “For pity's sake, we cannot find ourselves _in flagrante delicto_ at this ridiculous time of the day when Simmons, or even the housekeeper, could come knocking at our door -- and heaven forbid that they should hear anything.”

I knew that he was right. I rolled off him, resignedly, hanging close to his side. “Tonight, then,” I said. “Or very soon. In the meantime, we shall make do with this.”

And my fingers worked open his trousers, and I moved down that I might join them. Then my mouth took over and took hold and did its busywork; and effectively, for it took a very brief minute to bring my friend to his completion. And I drank him down, and tongued him clean, and all the while he only uttered the most delightful, tiny, ecstatic noises, muffled as best as they could be by his shirt-sleeve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had not yet returned by the time that Holmes and I had recovered ourselves, and hastened downstairs to converse with Simmons one hour later. By now it was early evening, and Magda had begun to prepare the excellent dinner we had been promised. Simmons did his best to keep up with the flow of light-hearted conversation, but it was evident that his thoughts kept returning to his son's whereabouts, and to what mischief the lad might have gotten himself into. For my own part, my anxiety increased with each chime of the clock, for it seemed plain that the longer the boy stayed away, the greater the scene with his father when he finally deigned to show up. We three of us sat at one of the tables in the rear garden, with our aperitifs. I wondered idly if at some point over the next couple of days I might be able to persuade Holmes to join me for a dip in the bathing pool.

“Simmons, would it be possible for you to recommend to us any fine restaurants or inns in the area?” Holmes leaned back in his chair and toyed with the stem of his glass.

The man considered for a moment. “If it is a pint of ale you are after, then you should look no further than 'The Dog & Turnip',” said he. “Fine company, there, too. Watson here must surely have seen it on one of his walkabouts, for it is in the same square as the telegraph office.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, “I recall observing the sign hanging up outside the place, and thinking what a very queer name for an inn.”

Simmons shrugged. “I do not see what is so odd about it. But at any rate, it is a good place, and Ellis, the landlord, is a friendly fellow. If it's a restaurant that you'd prefer, well, those are rather thin on the ground, but I imagine you'd find a fine meal at Spooner's -- although that's on the high street in the main village, and a carriage ride away.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “that is most helpful.”

The dinner was served shortly afterwards, and Peter still was not home.

“Does he often behave so?” enquired Holmes, as the housekeeper took away our empty soup bowls in preparation for the main course.

“Occasionally, yes, I regret that he does,” sighed Simmons, “and I sincerely apologise for such an event having occurred upon the day of your arrival, Mr. Holmes. It is terribly ill-mannered, and I shall be having stern words with him.”

“Perhaps he is with one of his old school-friends, and they have lost track of the time?”

If I had been paying closer attention then I should have sworn to it that Simmons flinched just a fraction at Holmes's remark. If he did, then he covered it well, to fuss around with his napkin.

“It is possible, it is possible,” said he, frowning. “Who can tell? Dear me.”

“You do not approve of his friends?” Holmes persisted. “Do they not visit the cottage here?”

“Oh... yes... well, no, not really, I do not think so.”

Holmes flashed me a glance. It was clear that this twist of the conversation was causing Simmons discomfort. For the moment, my friend appeared willing to let the subject drop. We spoke then of music, of literature and the theatre, which continued very pleasantly throughout the main course – a splendid roast chicken – and the mouth-watering meringue and berry fruit dessert. Upon retiring to the sitting-room we passed a further stretch of the clock with a few hands of cards. It was not quite eleven when Holmes and I made our excuses and wished our host a good night.

Holmes joined me in my room almost immediately. Pulling loose my bow-tie, he unfastened my cuffs, placing the links carefully upon the bedside table, and then drew me close to him in a soft, lingering kiss.

“You taste of berries and cigars,” he remarked.

I hummed into him. “How unfortunate.”

“I like it.” His right hand slid below my waist, grabbed a handful of my backside and squeezed. “I'm a little nervous,” said he, sounding quite amused all the same.

“So am I,” I chuckled. “Isn't it strange? I didn't think I --”

The front door below us slammed shut; an almighty crash, someone stumbling upon the hall rug. We broke apart with a jump.

“It sounds as though young Peter is home at last,” Holmes observed, dryly. We moved nearer to the bedroom door to listen to what might transpire.

The shuffling and thumping moved a few steps inside the hall. We heard Simmons's voice: accusing, angry. The boy's response was slurred, dismissive: intoxicated with alcohol. Harsh questioning: _“Where in the hell have you been?”_ Then: _“What do you care? A fat lot, for all the attention I get!” “Hush! You are drunk. Look at the state of you!”_

Holmes and I exchanged looks. “They had a similar set-to a couple of days ago,” I said, remembering, “which they cut off most abruptly when they saw that I had heard.” I recalled something else, then. “Oh, and Holmes! This was so very odd. Simmons confided to me that Peter was keen on drawing and architecture – but when I spoke to the lad about it, he was nonplussed and confessed to me that he could not draw.”

“Well, Simmons might simply have been over-emphasising his son's skills. Understandable, I suppose, if the boy has none, eh, Watson. But yes, I would be inclined to agree that it is odd – and the more-so with the curiosity of that letter of yours.”

The row seemed to have progressed to the bottom step of the stairs. The staggering footfall of the boy attempting to climb an impossible mountain; the remonstrations of his father behind him. It continued along the landing to the bathroom, whereupon the door closed, all but ricocheting off its hinges.

“Tonight is quite possibly not the most opportune moment for our tryst, Watson,” Holmes said, ruefully, sweeping back a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “This row may well continue into the small hours. What say you that we postpone until a more favourable juncture?”

I smiled, kissed the tip of his chin. “And what will tomorrow bring us?” I asked him.

“Wait and see, my dear boy, wait and see,” my friend replied, with a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

I awoke early the following morning, with the bright sun already streaming through chinks in the curtains and casting streaks of white light upon the rug. My watch advised that it was seven o'clock; I could steal perhaps another hour of slumber if I desired, but upon hearing a faint stirring from the adjacent room I decided to dress. Holmes was an habitual late-riser back home, but the unfamiliarity of the surroundings and the erratic behaviour of our hosts had no doubt won out over his tendency to lethargy. I washed quickly, combed my hair and laced my boots, and made my way from my room out to the landing, where I tapped softly at my friend's door. The door opened almost instantly, with Holmes's nose poking out inquisitively through the crack.

“Watson,” said he, cheerfully, “good morning, my boy. Come in.”

I entered the blue room and shut the door behind me. We embraced, a little awkwardly, for Holmes was in the middle of shaving and his face was afroth with soap. I sat down in a padded chair and watched my friend as he stood there in front of the small mirror, scraping away the night's bristles and rinsing off the flecked foam.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked.

He shook his head slightly, still working with the razor. “Not particularly. I am not altogether sure what the previous occupant of this wretched bed might have done to the mattress, but the damage to it is grievous. There are more dips and sags than in the worst of any London road. And no, Watson, it isn't funny,” he pointed the razor at me from his mirror reflection, jabbing with it against the glass. “I really must have a word with the housekeeper about it.” A pause. “Are you up for a walk today?”

“Certainly, if that is what you would like. You are thinking of visiting that inn with the peculiar name?”

“Yes, The Dog & Turnip. I thought we might as well. I wonder how young Master Peter's head is feeling this morning.”

I exhaled a whistle through my teeth, shaking my head. “Rather tender, I should expect.”

Holmes spun around, towelling his face dry, then flung the cloth to one side and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. “I believe Magda has been in to see him already,” said he, quirking an eyebrow. “With a medicine for his stomach and his head, I should hope. I'd rather like to talk with him this morning before we set off.” He sat down upon the edge of the bed and reached for his boots. “Shall I reveal to you now one of the reasons why this lad interests me so? Very well, then. Your second letter made a great show of mentioning Peter's fondness for his boarding-school, and his telling of his experiences there. It might surprise you, therefore, Watson, that I made an investigation of my own and discovered that Wetherby has _never_ had _any_ student enrolled under the name of Peter Simmons.”

I stared back at my friend. “So what are you telling me, Holmes? That the boy is lying to us? And does his father know? Or did he attend the school under an alternative name, perhaps?”

Holmes chuckled. “There are a number of possibilities, are there not? It is not my business upon this occasion to interfere, but I must confess that I am intrigued. And, of course, if the boy is deceiving his father for whatever reason or motive, then I feel it to be in Simmons's best interests that he be made aware. If we can just find out a little more detail first.”

I shook my head. “If Peter has been deceiving his father then this could tear the two of them apart quite irrevocably,” I said. “How would it even have been possible for him to do so?”

“I should like to speak with the housekeeper,” Holmes continued. “It may be that she is more involved than is currently apparent. Anyway – are you quite ready, my boy? I suppose that you will be wanting some breakfast.”

We made our way downstairs to the oak-panelled dining room, where we found the table laid for breakfast but as yet unserved; the dishes and plates still empty and clean. Simmons was nowhere to be found; the boy likewise. We strolled through to the games room where I unlocked the French windows, and we stepped out onto the sunlit patio. Holmes pulled his silver cigarette case from his pocket, and lit two of the thin rolls, passing one across to me. We stood and smoked, enjoying the warmth of the morning.

“It is very peaceful here,” Holmes said softly, looking around him. “No rattling of hansom cabs, no hubbub from passers-by; merely bird-song and chirruping insects.” He smiled at me. “I think that I should like to retire to the country one day, Watson.”

“And I should hope that that day is a long way away,” I replied, warmly. “London needs you, my dear fellow. But do remember to ask me if I might care to accompany you as and when you do decide,” I added, with a tilt of my head. My friend winked.

We heard a clatter from within then, and turned to see Magda, setting down cups, saucers and pots of steaming tea and coffee. She looked up at our approach, and nodded a good morning.

“I heard that the two of you gentlemen were up and about,” said she. “Breakfast will be just a little while longer. I expect the Master will be down very shortly.”

“How is Peter?” I enquired.

Magda sighed, and ran her hands down her apron front, smoothing the wrinkles. “He has a headache and a nausea. I do not think that the young sir will be joining us this morning, for I have already advised that he try and sleep it off. He is a little embarrassed by his conduct, I think, gentlemen,” she added. She bustled off abruptly in the direction of the kitchen, and Holmes and I took up with the tea things.

“Have you noticed how much softer the water is here,” my friend mused, “it makes everything taste very different.”

“Yes! I have noticed that,” I said. “And a tablet of soap goes a longer way, too!”

“A pity about Peter,” said Holmes, “for I did want to speak to him before breakfast. But it cannot be helped.”

“What cannot be helped? Good morning, Mr. Holmes! Good morning, Watson!”

Simmons had joined us in the dining room, his voice booming, his mood ebullient. The volume almost caused me to spill the tea which I was at that moment in the process of pouring.

“Good morning, Simmons!” I greeted him with a smile. “You are in a fine mood, I am pleased to see. How are you feeling?”

“Good, I am good. At least, better than that wretched son of mine, eh eh!” he chuckled. “You must have heard our argument last night, and I must apologise for that. Peter tells me that he spent the day with an old school-friend, and they somehow managed to find themselves a bottle of liquor, and, well, you heard the end result of that. I do not condone over-indulgence of alcohol, gentlemen, no, not at all, but my boy says that he is sorry and that he will not do it again. He is suffering for it now, at any rate. Tea! Just the thing I need.”

“It does not disturb you that he was with one of his school-friends?” asked Holmes. “I understood you to be disinclined towards them, but that is not the case?”

Simmons frowned. “Not all of them, Mr. Holmes, no. I trust my boy not to keep bad company. They do not visit the cottage here, but then so many of them do not live locally to us. So, yes, there we have it. Coffee! As well as tea! Dear Magda is spoiling us this morning.”

“Have you not met any of Peter's friends in any capacity?” Holmes persisted.

“Not so as to hold a conversation,” said Simmons. “But I have glimpsed them, upon occasion. And that is quite sufficient. Teenaged boys are such a handful. I am rather thankful, after all, that I was not blessed with twins.”

“Indeed,” replied Holmes. “I could well imagine the bedlam.”

“Ah, but Mr. Holmes, could you though? You have no family of your own – you are similar to dear Watson here in that respect. And I was telling Watson only the other day that he needs to find himself a lovely young wife, ha ha! That would put you in order, wouldn't it, my man, eh?”

“It certainly would,” I replied, with a look to Holmes. We were rescued from any further inane dialogue by Magda's reappearance with the breakfast bowls, which heaped up our plates and occupied us all very nicely for the next twenty minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lane was idyllically empty when Holmes and I set off along it some little while later. The cottages at this point were few and far between, and my friend took my arm and we strolled leisurely, without any real destination, which was pleasant. It was still rather early, of course, and the inn would not be open for several hours yet. The stones and grit crunched underfoot; the only discernible sound were it not for the twittering birds in the trees either side of us. I had the sudden idea that Holmes might perhaps enjoy the lake which Peter had led me to previously.

“If it will be quiet then I have no objection,” my friend replied. “But I would like you to myself for a little while today, if that is at all possible.”

“That could be arranged,” I said, raising an eyebrow, “might I enquire as for what reason?”

“We have been apart for all these days, and you need to have a _reason_ to be alone with me?” Holmes looked put-out. “Do you fear that I will attempt to ravish you behind a tree trunk?”

“I almost wish that you would,” I replied, grabbing hold of his hand and pulling to bring him in line with me, for he had slowed in his pique. “But let us visit the lake, first of all. I am sure it will be quiet. Have we seen another soul yet on this lane?”

And true to my word the spot was beautifully peaceful, with perhaps a half dozen people on the paths furthest from us, and a couple of small boats out upon the water. Holmes and I sat down on a bench by the lakeside, discreetly held hands and talked much about very little in particular. It was delightful, and the both of us were very content for those hours, I think.

Before midday we were returning down the bracken path to the main lane, and from there made our way to the old Square, where we hoped to take lunch at the illustrious The Dog & Turnip and engage with the landlord, Mr. Ellis. As luck would have it, the inn had only just opened for the lunchtime trade, and we found ourselves the sole customers inside. Ellis was a good-looking man in his late thirties: tall, broad-shouldered, with a sweep of dark hair and a neat, trimmed moustache. If not effusive in his greeting, he was amiable enough all the same, and we ordered two pints of his best ale and took up a pair of stools at the bar.

“We were recommended to you by old Charlie Simmons up at Goldenrod Cottage, with whom we are staying at present,” said Holmes, eyeing the fellow keenly, no doubt gleaning every last scrap of history from his shirt-cuffs and knuckles.

“Is that right, aye,” said Ellis, setting down one full dark pint glass and picking up with another, “and how is Simmons? We have not seen so very much of him lately.”

“He has been unwell,” I explained, “but he is almost fully recovered. I should think that you will see him again very soon.”

“That is good,” replied Ellis, nodding. “You are his doctors?”

“I am his doctor, yes.”

“His son, Peter, is now back home from school,” Holmes interjected, “so it is quite a full house at present.”

“Ah, young Master Peter.” Ellis slid the coins from the bar into his palm, and tipped them into the till-box. “He is a good, polite boy, that one. I have seen him around the Square here most days this Summer. An' sometimes he's hanging around with that pal of his. Now, the pal, I'm not so keen on, but Simmons has raised a fine lad in Peter.”

“What is the matter with his pal?” enquired Holmes, sipping from his pint.

Ellis pursed his lips, shrugged. “Airs and graces, that one,” said he. “Comes in here and talks down to my bar-staff like he owns the place, and he's but a mere chit of a lad. Well, I don't know how old he might be, but I suppose it's close enough to Master Peter's age. But no, I don't rightly care for him.”

“Does the friend live locally, do you know?”

“I've never seen 'im alone, sir, only ever with young Peter, and not all that regular.”

“I see. Thank you. How long have you been landlord of this inn, Ellis?”

“Well, only a couple of years here at The Dog & Turnip, sir, but I've run other inns before this 'un. This place is quiet during the Winter, but it's still better than most.”

A gaggle of new customers distracted our landlord's attention away, then, and he moved across to the further end of the bar. Holmes turned to me with a slight grimace of disappointment.

“A shame that our friend Ellis has only been here for so short a time,” he said, ruefully, “otherwise I think we might have gotten a deal more interesting information from him. Hmm, and no other bar-staff are on duty at the moment. Still, we might pay a visit to several other of the premises in this Square. After lunch, that is,” he added, upon observing my expression of dismay. “My goodness, Watson, I should not dare deprive you of your ham sandwich.”

After our meal we paid casual enquiry at the telegraph office, the greengrocer and the newsagent, none of whom were able to tell us very much other than that Mr. Simmons was a very affable gentleman, and why yes, they may have seen his son, but not frequently enough to become so well acquainted.

“They know nothing,” Holmes tutted, as we walked back across the Square. “We shall just have to address the boy directly.”

“But tactfully,” I added.

“Well, of course _tactfully_ ,” Holmes snapped. “Is it my nature to storm in and offend people to left, right and centre?”

I said nothing; I thought it best. Working with my friend was six of one and half a dozen of the other. “Are we going home now?” I asked.

“Yes, I am full to the brim with fresh country air for the moment. Let us return.”

We arrived back at the cottage by half-past-one. Entering the sitting-room briefly to see if our friend Simmons was about, my eyes fell upon a small shelf in the corner to which I had not paid any previous attention. A picture-frame stood upon it; I picked it up to examine it. It was a photograph of a younger man, smiling, seated upon a plush sofa, holding a babe in his arms.

“It is a photograph of Simmons, from the old days, and how I remember him,” I exclaimed. “And he is holding baby Peter. How lovely.”

Holmes looked over my shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “isn't it. Now, let us see if we can locate the grown-up version, if he is feeling quite recovered now.”


	9. Chapter 9

We wandered through the cottage, looking for signs of life. Both dining and games rooms were empty, but we heard a faint clatter from the direction of the kitchen, and then, looking out through the French windows to the patio, saw Peter sitting cross-legged in the middle of the grass. An empty tumbler lay on its side next to his left knee; he was seemingly engrossed in a paperback novel. Holmes and I stepped out to greet him. He twisted his head around, spotting us before either had opportunity to speak. Leaping up, his body all awkward angles and discomfort, he thrust his right hand out towards my friend.

“Mr. Holmes,” said he, looking up and squinting against the glare of the sun, “I am pleased to meet you at last. I'm Peter.”

Holmes shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Peter. How are you feeling?”

The boy bit his lip. “I am better. Thank you. I am sorry if you heard my return last night. I cannot recall very much of what happened, I am afraid.” He turned his eyes towards me, searching my face as though in an attempt to discern if I had given away his earlier indiscretions. I smiled at him; he returned it, nervously.

“I am glad we found you here, Peter,” Holmes continued. “Shall we sit over here... at the table?”

We moved across to one of the lawn tables, and took our chairs beneath the shade of the bright umbrella.

“Father has gone for a bicycle ride,” the lad explained. “I suppose he will be back within an hour or two.”

Holmes lit a cigarette, inhaled, leaned back in his chair. “That is quite all right,” said he, “it was with you that I wished to speak. Watson here has been telling me of your great fondness for your school-days. I was thinking you might have a few tales to share with us now.”

There was an odd inflection to my friend's tone, one that I caught straightaway, and which Peter did also, for he started, flushed, looking quickly first to me and then back to Holmes.

“I cannot think that my school-tales would be of any great interest to you, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “You would find them quite dull, I am sure. I could tell you instead of some places of interest here in Windermere, which you might like to visit with Doctor Watson, perhaps, or --”

“I should far rather hear of your school-days, believe me,” Holmes interrupted. “Or should that be the _absence_ of them? Perhaps you would care to enlighten us. Forgive me if I seem presumptuous, but it appears that you never did, in fact, attend Wetherby at any point. Is that not correct?” He looked hard at the boy, whose face paled now, his mouth opening and shutting without a peep of sound coming out for a great many seconds.

“W-What do you mean?” the lad managed, at last.

Holmes tutted. “Oh, Peter. You deny it? You assert that you attended Wetherby as a boarding pupil, when as a matter of actual fact the school claims never to have heard of a “Peter Simmons”, or indeed, educated any pupil by that surname at all.”

Holmes had caught the boy off-guard, for the lad could hardly speak, or move, even, such was his stricken horror.

“Why should you check up on me like this?” he stammered. “What on earth do you think you are doing? It should be none of your business!”

“I am a detective,” replied Holmes, dryly, “it is what I do. I admit that I should consider myself off-duty, shall we say, at the current moment, and yet old habits die hard, do they not? I found myself extremely curious by my friend Watson's correspondence, which I am afraid did make specific mention of the school. If you are now tempted to further invent an alternative school history, do be aware that I shall feel obliged to check on that also. Perhaps all this can be easily explained away. I do hope so -- for your father's sake as much as your own. It is for him that I am pursuing this matter; believe me, it is not for any vindictive personal reason. Could you share with us some truths now? We would very much appreciate it.”

Peter slumped in his lawn chair, turned his head and looked towards the cluster of tall trees standing beyond and outside of the garden boundaries, as though he wished to join them that very moment. He appeared to be wrestling with the best method of formulating a response to my friend's question, looking to me, once again, as though in supplication, before turning back to Holmes. Eventually, he recovered himself.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, you are correct, I never did attend Wetherby,” said he, his handsome face pinched and angry. “Again, I repeat that I find it outrageous and extremely offensive that you should check up on my history in this manner.” He paused, tapping his fingers upon the wooden slats of the table. “My father is aware,” he said, finally. “That is all I am willing to say on the matter, and I would ask that you do not press any discussion with him about it.”

I frowned at this strange statement. “But Peter,” I said, “I have had many conversations with your father these past few days. We have discussed your school-days on several occasions, and he has never remotely indicated to me that things were not as they should be. Are you quite absolute in your assertion that he is aware?”

Peter huffed loudly, irritably. “ _My father is aware_ ,” he said, placing heavy stress on each word. “I really do wish that you would listen to me.”

“Which school did you attend, Peter?” my friend asked.

“I repeat, it is none of your business.”

“I see. Very well.” Holmes smiled thinly. “Who is the pal with whom you spend a great deal of time around the Square? Perhaps not a school-chum, then?”

Peter sprang up from his chair in a fury, almost upsetting the table as he did so.

“This is intolerable,” he spat, “I will not put up with any more of these ridiculous questions. I am going.” He flung a furiously unhappy glance at me, before storming away in the direction of the cottage, slamming the windows behind him so violently that they rattled.

“That went well,” I said, rubbing my face.

Holmes flicked his cigarette stub away into one of the flower beds. “Watson, I would beg you not to be facetious,” said he, stretching his long legs out from his chair. “Did you observe the reaction as soon as I mentioned the friend? My word.” He whistled softly. “And he tells us that Simmons knows about all of this? I would wager that he does not know about the chum, at any rate, and at the very least.”

“I am very confused,” I said. “What is behind all this? What is the truth? Who is Peter's friend, and why did he behave so when you asked him about it?”

Holmes caught my eye, nodded subtly towards the windows. I looked, seeing just a fleeting glimpse of Magda's white apron and skirts as she backed away from her observation point, alarmed, perhaps, at being noticed.

“Wait here,” said Holmes, rising up and setting off in pursuit. He was gone for some minutes; I lit a cigarette for myself and smoked it quietly. When he reappeared it was clear that the dialogue had not gone to his satisfaction.

“The housekeeper claims to know nothing,” said he, in disgust, throwing himself back into his chair. “As far as she is concerned, Master Peter attended Wetherby each term without anomaly. I did not explain the reasoning behind my questions; I would prefer to first speak with Simmons. She has no knowledge of the friend, but then, as I gather the fellow would not have visited the cottage in any case, that is unsurprising. Oh well, Watson.”

“Did you see Peter?”

“No. I imagine he has either stamped off to his room, or disappeared outside somewhere. Are you expecting that I should apologise to him? He would be waiting a very long time for that.”

I rolled my eyes. “I hope he does not kick up a fuss about it to his father, all the same, “ I said. “After all, we are their guests and you have been here for only five minutes, and --”

“Come out for dinner with me tonight,” Holmes interrupted, placing his hand over mine. “Spooner's', isn't it? I shall try and make amends to you. Do you know how we might obtain transportation into this no-man's-land of a village?”

I chuckled. “I believe our nearest friendly neighbour, Pike, has a horse and trap which he loans to Simmons on occasion. He might, perhaps, extend the favour to us. I have exchanged a few Good Mornings and Good Afternoons with him, he knows that I am staying here at the cottage.”

“You perhaps might have a word with Simmons, then, and Mr. Pike. And I shall afterwards speak directly with Simmons regarding his wayward son. _Tactfully_ ,” Holmes added, narrowing his eyes at my accusing look. “In the meantime, for goodness sake, come upstairs with me. I do think we need a little private time.”

We went to his room, and did not lock the door, although I placed a chair close to it so that we might at least be alerted should anyone attempt to enter without first knocking. Holmes lay down on the bed, turned upon his side, waiting for me to join him. I did so; stretching out along the full length of his body, pressing close, my right hand raking through his hair, my left stroking his nape and shoulders, his back, his narrow waist. He hummed with pleasure, dropped his head to mine so that we might kiss. His mouth was soft, his tongue lazily tipping the bow of my lip. It was slow and familiar, warm and comforting.

“When?” he asked, softly, his exhaling breath hot on my neck. I shuddered.

“I wish we could right now,” I said. “You are such a tease. You have no intention of doing it here and now, have you?”

“No.” His laugh rumbled against my skin; it was maddening. “Right now, I just want this.” He kissed me. “Or this.” He palmed my prick through too many layers of clothing; I groaned, wanting more of him. “Or even this.” He began to unfasten my belt, but I pushed his hand away.

“If we are doing anything remotely along those lines, then we definitely need to lock the door,” I said, my breathing ragged now. Holmes rolled onto his back, smiling broadly, his eyes closed.

“I love you,” he said. “Sometimes I think that I don't tell you that quite often enough.”

I curled myself in again, breathed him in, that musky, sweet scent of him. “It means the more to me when you do say it,” I told him. “And I love and adore you too. Always. Forever.” I pinched one of his nipples lightly through his shirt; he gasped. “Even when you are being a nightmare.” I raised my head to listen towards the door, then. The cottage was utterly silent. “I am going to lock the door,” I said, “and then I am going to come back to this bed, and you are going to finish whatever it was that you started, do you hear me?”

“Yes, John,” Holmes replied, obediently. He moistened his lips, in preparation.


	10. Chapter 10

Our impromptu tryst accomplished, I left the cottage to call upon our closest neighbour, Mr. Pike: owner of the very necessary horse and trap for our visit into the main village that evening. I wondered why Simmons had not set himself up with a similar means of transport, and concluded a bicycle such as our friend already possessed would be sufficient for most eventualities. Not, however, for two be-suited gentlemen, intent on a dinner with one or several brandies to chase. I located Pike in his usual haunt, his rather attractive front garden; he was dead-heading a cluster of colourful blooms. We engaged in affable chit-chat for several or more minutes, during which I discovered to my surprise and delight that Pike was planning on a trip into the village that very evening, for a church function he was to attend with his wife. Why yes, we could most certainly travel along with them. And it would be no trouble at all for us to return with them, say, two hours later? Most welcome!

Pleased by this auspicious turn, I strolled back to the cottage. I saw from the two bicycle clips cast upon the hall table that Simmons had returned in my absence. I listened for any trace of a sound, but could hear nothing. I passed through first the sitting-room and then the dining room, eventually hearing the soft murmur of conversation from a corner of the games room. Holmes was speaking in a low tone: gentle, concerned. I hesitated, unsure that I should intrude upon the meeting. Simmons's voice replied: controlled, steady. I could make out only the occasional word. I thought it best to leave the two of them to it; Holmes would update me later. I headed out to the hall, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Shucking off my jacket I lay on the bed and opened my novel to read. I had literally five minutes alone with my Goethe, for Holmes rejoined me almost immediately. He walked to the open window, leaned out of it and looked down into the garden.

“Simmons knows,” he said, seemingly intent upon the lawn.

I sat up. “He does?” I was incredulous. “Then why did he pretend to me that --”

“I have two theories,” Holmes replied, glancing around. “I would say pride, for one -- but there is something within that fellow's manner which whispers to me of guilt; of something not quite correct. Simmons was polite with me, yet defensive. His responses were similar to those of young Peter's, in that he more or less recommended I mind my own business.” Holmes turned away from the window and came to sit down beside me on the bed. “So perhaps the boy was home-schooled, for social or locational reasons. Possibly Simmons is ashamed of the fact, and therefore they invented this tall tale for our benefit and other's. But it seems a peculiar notion, and one which I think would embarrass the boy. I do not hold much stock in it. My other theory -- which I will not trouble you with at this moment, Watson -- I feel to be the more likely. But at any rate, I shall not interfere any further. I have looked into this curio at the outset for Simmons's benefit, but he would not smile favourably upon my delving any deeper, of that I am certain.”

“Did you mention the young friend? What was your second theory?” I was filled with curiosity.

“No. And it does not matter now. The subject is closed. Did you manage to find Mr. Pike?”

I told my friend of the plans that Pike and I had discussed. He nodded in approval.

“Very good. That still leaves us a few hours to play with. I did mention our dinner to Simmons, so he is aware of it and you need not repeat the tedious message. Well, I think I might attempt a nap, Watson. I believe the housekeeper should have exchanged my diabolical mattress for another already, if I am lucky.” Holmes yawned noisily. “All this fresh air! I feel quite worn out. Let us meet up again at five?” And so saying, he placed a hand upon my arm before rising and departing for his own quarters next door. I attempted a return to my novel, but the effects of the day's exercise pulled relentlessly at me also. It was not so very long before the book slid from my hands to the coverlet, as my eyelids drooped and I fell into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes, ever-punctual, shook me awake a couple of minutes after five o'clock. We managed to procure a pot of tea from Magda, and settled to drink it in the small ground-floor library. We riffled through dusty tomes, coming up with nothing of interest but a great many volumes on butterflies and birds, natural history in general. It came to the point where I suggested I might teach to my friend the finer points of the splendid game of Billiards. Holmes, naturally, baulked a little at the idea; nonetheless we spent a pleasant hour at the table, he negotiating the rules and the cue very admirably. With his sharp, analytical mind it was a given that he should be a natural, of course. I emerged the victor, but narrowly.

Then a bathe and a fresh change of clothes for us both, and we were prepared for our meeting with Mr. & Mrs. Pike by seven o'clock. Mrs. Pike was a most charming lady and I think that even Holmes was quite taken with her, for our group was a merry one as we clattered the lanes towards the village, the sun lowering the while and spreading its warm orange glow across the wide fields.

We discovered Spooner's as a quaint little restaurant on the main street, an adjoining open-air courtyard containing a small number of tables for daytime luncheons. Once inside the gently humming hive we were led to a discreet side booth; our waiter a most friendly gentleman who insisted upon bringing us a candle for our table. This we appreciated, for the gas lighting placed around the area was muted. We browsed our menus, ordered a bottle of white Burgundy and a first course.

“I think that tomorrow we must bid a fond farewell to friend Simmons and son, and return home to Baker Street,” said Holmes, as we chinked glasses and sipped the chilled wine. “I fear that I am no longer a welcome guest – at least not in the eyes of young Peter – although _your_ reputation remains untarnished, it hardly needs to be said.”

“I am relieved, I have to confess,” I replied. “Simmons appears quite well now, so there is really no need for me to prolong my stay. By the way, Holmes, will you tell me your second theory, or not?”

“Hmm,” said he, “I think that for your sake I would rather not. Oh, Watson, they have oysters here. What do you say?”

We ate well, and our conversation was light-hearted and inconsequential, Holmes keeping his mystery to himself for the moment. We spent some time over brandies, and requested the bill, emerging out into the late evening to stroll the courtyard and smoke a cigar. The air was delicately perfumed from night-scented stock; just a soft breeze, and such a quiet stillness all around us. The Pikes caught up with us presently. They had taken to us warmly, for we were invited back to their cottage for further drinks, conversation and a game of cards. It was late, therefore, when we finally walked up the driveway of Goldenrod Cottage. I fumbled for my borrowed door key to let us in.

The hallway was quiet; the downstairs rooms all in darkness, our hosts having retired to bed. Flushed with wine, Holmes took me up in his arms and kissed me hotly. We swayed gently for a moment upon the rug; our figures washed in the moonlight, hands in each other's hair, kissing, caressing, arousing, aroused.

“I can't wait any longer,” I huffed a giggle to my friend's ear, grown brazen by alcohol. “I need our goat's jigg tonight.”

“Our _what?_ Well, not in the damn hallway, John,” said Holmes, amused. “I cannot _believe_ you just said... that.”

Arms slung around each other's waists, we crept up the stairs, careful to not make a sound.

And then. A soft, sharp cry. From Simmons's room, or so it seemed.

And again. Of pain? Anguish?

I looked in alarm to Holmes. I began to move towards the end of the landing. Holmes made to clutch my arm, to hold me back, but I charged forward. Simmons was ill, in pain, he might require my assistance.

I reached the door; grasped the handle, made to twist it open, to call out to my friend and enquire if he was suffering, when:

“Yes, oh God, yes... oh, _more_... yes...”

I froze. That voice. It was not Simmons.

It was Peter's voice.

A heavy boister of bedsprings. And Simmons then, gasping, moaning, close.

Holmes's hand on my shoulder made me start back in alarm. He pulled me gently away from the door. “Come, John,” he said, softly, “I will explain to you now.”

He led me into my room, where he sat me down – I was still in shock – and placed his hand upon my arm.

“Peter is not Simmons's son,” Holmes said. “John, are you listening to me? _They are not father and son_.”

“But –”

“I had my suspicions,” said my friend, now sober and collected, “which were compounded when we arrived home the other day and you noticed the picture-frame – do you remember? Yes, you commented upon it. It interested me particularly because it had not been there earlier. I notice such trifles. Furthermore, the child in the photo possessed darker hair, whereas Peter is of course blond. Yes, I know, hair colour can change at such a formative age, but oh, really, John. It was likely the child of a close friend; a long-forgotten photograph, hauled out of a drawer and put on prominent display in an attempt to avert speculation on our part. Simmons is observant, I will give him credit for that. At any rate – this afternoon, after I had left you on the pretext of taking rest... I did not rest. I waited a short while, and then slipped along the landing and into Simmons's bedroom, which perhaps rather unwisely he leaves unlocked during the day. I very quickly discovered a metal box in a bedside cabinet, with a tiny key still in the lock, and love letters within. Ah yes, I need not say whom they were from, now, need I? Letters from scarcely a year ago, an anxious new partner, not from the village, suggesting how best they might avert unwanted attention from prying eyes.”

I shook my head. “This is a lot for me to take in, Holmes,” I said. “So they are unrelated. The boy is still incredibly young...”

“Not as young as he or Simmons would claim. From the detail he gives in his letters I would put him at around 22 years of age.”

“You are lucky that Simmons did not catch you in his room, looking through his personal papers,” I said, cradling my head in my hands.

Holmes shrugged. “I wanted to know the truth,” he said. “All the same, I would rather that we had not heard it in quite so much graphic detail.”

“But the lad is known around the village as Simmons's son. How could they have hoped to continue such a fabrication, if simply for the purpose of being able to live together without scandal? How on earth would Simmons explain it away if the relationship ended, and the boy vanished into thin air? Oh...” I paused. “Of course. The move to London, to ostensibly begin his career. Well, it still strikes me as a terrible risk to take.”

“No greater than the two of them carrying on covertly,” said Holmes. “You know how village tongues can and will wag. Simmons obviously has faith in this affair, although my goodness, I cannot see it lasting for very much longer, from what you have told me and from all I have observed. I believe the lad to have a current dalliance with that young fellow he has been seen around with.”

“We cannot let them know what we overheard,” I said, falling back upon the bed. My head swam unpleasantly; I grimaced. “How is it that you are forming full sentences without any apparent effort, Holmes, while I am stumbling on my words and my head is spinning?”

Holmes leaned back by my side. “My ability to focus when necessary is never debilitated,” he said. “The fact that you knock them back faster than I do might also have something to do with it. I do wonder how much of all this the dear housekeeper is aware. And what of the young man's own family? Perhaps he has none. He did not mention them in his letters.”

I covered my eyes with my arm, shielding them from the bright glare of the lamp. “I really do not care for being lied to,” I said.

Holmes rested a hand upon my leg. “You had not seen the fellow for years, it is only natural that he should be cautious.”

“But the stories he told me, Holmes,” I muttered, “of his relationship with Peter's mother... the boy's school-days... and then Peter himself, with his tall tales.” I sighed. “I do resent being made a fool of.”

My friend jiggled my thigh. “It is late,” said he, “we should save any further discussion of this for the morning. Shall I lock the door? Or would you rather that we sleep apart tonight? We did have plans – which seem a lifetime ago now.”

“I fear that this has rather killed the romantic mood for me,” I said. “My word, are we ever going to do this?” I chuckled, then, ruefully. “I'm sorry, Holmes, did you want to, tonight?”

He smiled at me, already rising to his feet. “We can wait. By this time tomorrow we should be back at Baker Street, with all the time and privacy in the world. Besides – these bedsprings, John. I have it on good authority that they _squeak_.”

We laughed, then, helplessly. He kissed me, with promises, before leaving, slipping out through the door, silently back to his own room. I remained where I was, fully-clothed, half-inebriated, and fell to dreamland almost straight away, which was quite the most surprising thing of all.


	11. Chapter 11

I opened my eyes, slowly, painfully. My mouth felt as dry as the bottom of a particularly foul bird-cage. My head throbbed rudely. I squinted, observing that I was still fully-clothed from the night before, not having even troubled to cover myself over with a sheet. I hauled myself off the bed, groaning – eight o'clock! according to my watch – and stumbled to the mirror: I looked dreadful. My bladder was protesting, painfully. I made haste to grab my wash-bag, hurrying down the landing, grateful to find the bathroom unoccupied. Returning to my room some minutes later, washed and shaved, I started back at the sight of Holmes now sitting on my bed and looking at me as though he had been there the whole night long without moving. He was immaculately dressed, of course, as fresh as ever, and grinning wickedly at me, the devil.

“Good morning,” said he, “how did you sleep, my dear fellow? My word, don't tell me you slept in your suit? It is most terribly rumpled.”

“Good morning. Like a log. Yes. I know. In that order,” I replied. I shut the door, pulled out a fresh set of clothes and began to redress. “I am hungover, Holmes.”

My friend laughed – unsympathetically, I thought. “You mixed your drinks,” he explained. “You should never mix grape and grain. You, as a doctor, should know that.”

“But you did also...”

“The difference being, that I am far better able to tolerate alcohol,” Holmes said. “What a lovely morning it is!”

“You are in an intolerably good mood,” I said, tying my tie in a sudden flap of irritation. “Is it because we are leaving the country today and returning home?”

“Yes.” He jumped up, moved close and helped me with my buttons, nimble-fingered. “And because tonight I will be... remind me of that awful phrase again, John?”

“Goat's jigg?”

“That's the one. Tonight I will be... goat's jigging... you into the mattress, without a shred of mercy or decorum.” He chuckled. “That is _such_ a terrible phrase. I am never using it again.”

“We had better help ourselves to a hearty breakfast, then,” I said, smiling. “But how on earth are we going to look Simmons or Peter in the eye, now that we know all, and have heard considerably more? I am rather embarrassed about it, Holmes.”

“Pish,” said my friend, “just think how much worse it would have been if you had turned the doorknob and walked in upon them.”

I shuddered at the thought.

I finished dressing, and together we walked down to the dining room to find Simmons and the lad already at their morning meal. They looked up at our approach; the boy sullen, with Simmons, I noticed, pinkening visibly at sight of us.

“Good morning, Watson, good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying down his knife and fork. “You are just in time, there is breakfast here enough to feed an army. Dear old Magda, ha!”

We wished them a good morning in return, and sat down at the table to help ourselves to eggs, sausages, toast, and a very much needed cup of tea. We exchanged polite conversation, with Holmes duly revealing our intention to depart later that morning.

“I am afraid that I still have an unfinished caseload,” my friend said, “which I would prefer not to leave for very much longer. And I would require the dear Doctor's assistance; it is always of inestimable value to me. We should have liked to have stayed a day or two more with you, but... I do hope you understand.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Simmons said, nodding from one to the other of us. “It has been a great joy having the two of you with us. We shall miss you, of course.”

Peter said nothing; he could barely look in Holmes's direction. He did glance at me, briefly, to give a small smile which I felt at a loss as to know what to do with. The boy eventually made his excuses, laid down his napkin, and left the table and the room altogether.

Simmons cleared his throat, and looked at me.

“I feel very awkward,” said he, “and very ashamed.”

Observing our quizzical looks, he continued. “I left my room late last night, to go downstairs to fetch my tobacco which I had absent-mindedly left behind in the sitting-room. On my way along the landing I could not help but hear the two of you talking, through your door. I listened a little while, I am sorry to admit. I heard your conclusions, Mr. Holmes, and your opinions of us too, Watson, and I really am so very regretful to have deceived you. It is such an impossibly delicate situation, that I was afraid to share detail with even my friends. Can you understand that? Dear Magda knows, of course, but she is the very soul of discretion, bless her heart; she has been with me for years. I do rather wish that you had not searched through my belongings, all the same, sir.”

Holmes nodded in acquiescence. “My methods are at times unorthodox,” he said, “and I apologise, also. Please believe me when I tell you that none of this shall go beyond these four walls. The situation as I saw it was so mysterious and intriguing that I felt compelled to examine it as best I could.”

Simmons made a gesture, held his hands out before him palms upwards. “I do not know what will happen,” he said. “Peter and I love one another, but the age difference between us is very great, and I fear that he grows restless already. He seeks out new friendships, I am aware of that, but I ignore them, they do not last, he returns to me always, in the end.”

“You need to sit down with each other and discuss what it is that you both want and need from this union,” said Holmes. “If the both of you are pulling in different directions, then it cannot possibly endure in the long-term. You have set up a very complex web, Simmons, one which stands to unravel quite quickly if each of you does not put in your share of effort.”

And the conversation continued, back and forth between we three, for some while longer. But really, when it pertains to matters of the heart, even the soundest advice will be ignored if the recipient does not wish to hear that which is given.

After an interval, Holmes and I retired to our rooms to pack up our suitcases and prepare for our journey. Our saviour, Mr. Pike, pulled up outside in his horse and trap to drive us into the village. We said our farewells, shook hands with Simmons and with Peter also, loaded up our baggage, climbed aboard, and were off. Off in time to catch the midday train, and to arrive back home in London by the evening. My heart lifted in the pleasurable thought of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To judge by Mrs. Hudson's affectionate greeting upon our return, we might have been away for a month. Our landlady fussed around us as we carried our cases up the stairs and through into our sitting-room. We were offered an evening meal, tea, coffee, “whatever you like gentlemen”. We were both wearied from the train journey, and accepted these things gratefully. By the time that we had washed, eaten and settled down, finally, it was almost nine o'clock. We lit our pipes, smoked quietly, spoke little. My mind passed back now over recent events; how very easy it is to deceive and be deceived, even when personal gain never enters the equation. And yet, how very far away that all felt to me now. I did not suppose that I should retain contact with Simmons. This entire strange week would stand out as one snapshot amongst many; one never repeated.

I mused in this fashion for a while. When at a point I broke from meditation to knock the ash from my pipe into the fireplace, I saw Holmes looking steadily at me. He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“What a brown study you have been in,” said he. “I have been watching you for quite this past fifteen minutes, cataloguing all of your expressions. I could relate back to you what you were thinking, if you would like.”

“No, that is all right,” I chuckled, “you need not do that.” I sat back upon the edge of my chair. “Shall we, then?” I suggested. He nodded.

We extinguished the gas lamps, locked the doors and ascended the stairs to my room, where my suitcase still stood unpacked in the corner. I opened the bedside drawer, took out the small vial of oil, a clean hand-towel, placed them upon the night stand.

I turned around to my friend. He had thrown off his tie, his shirt was unbuttoned, his belt unfastened. His grey eyes were fixed upon me.

“Come here,” he said.

I went to him. I touched his shirt-sleeve, rubbed his arm gently. I brought his hand to my lips, kissed it, reverently. Looking up into his face, I saw him smiling. I leaned into him; nestled my head between his neck and shoulder, pressing small close-mouthed affections to his skin there. I felt him shiver; his hands coming up to caress my back, to draw me closer until I could feel the body heat from him.

“How do you want me?” I asked, softly. He grunted, as if the thought of it had not previously occurred to him.

“How you usually take me,” he replied, eventually. On my back, then. Why did my heart beat so uncommonly fast? It was not as though he would be rough, or unfeeling. It had been many years, all the same.

Holmes pushed me back, slightly, taking charge, to undress me. My waistcoat, tie, shirt and undershirt soon lay pooled on the floor. He knelt, unlaced my boots; I raised each in turn that he might remove them, with my stockings. He released my belt, drawing my trousers down and off my legs. “Lay down on the bed,” he whispered. I did so. He took my remaining undergarment, pulled it from me, threw it aside; stood looking down at me. “You are beautiful,” he said. I might have replied, but for my breathing, which was unaccountably heavy. Holmes stripped off his clothes, unselfconsciously, 'til he was naked. Already hard; he ignored it, his attention on me, as I panted for breath, spreading my legs apart, waiting.

“Say it,” I begged him. He looked at me, quizzically. “Say what it is you want to do,” I said.

“I am _not_ going to use that infernal phrase again...”

“ _No, not that_.”

He knelt on the bed, between my legs, leaned over me, supporting himself on his arms, locking our eyes together. “I want to fuck you,” he said, quivering a little.

“Yes,” I said, glad that I was still able somehow to get the words out before delirium. “And I want you to do it.” I hitched my hips up, desperate for contact, for his touch. He inclined his head, kissed my mouth: gorgeously long, passionate kisses, inflaming me, as his body lowered itself so very gradually down towards me until, at last, we lay against each other, slick with perspiration already and barely even begun. I raised my legs across his back; he moaned, met my movement, and we rocked together slowly, sliding, contacting, while we devoured each other's mouths, greedy.

We broke apart, momentarily. Holmes nipped and licked a wet trail down my front. He blew a mouthful of hot air over my cockstand, before tipping it, batting it, fretting with his tongue until I begged, for the sensation was so acute.

“Do you want more?” he whispered.

Yes, yes, I want everything. And yes, now, I do want it now. This, communicated with kisses, hips, legs drawn up to my stomach, presenting. He could have done anything, now; I would have taken it.

Two fingers, oiled, entering me, twisting, stretching. Groaning. Loud. Three fingers, gently pushing in, pulling out, pushing, pulling. My God. How that felt. Then, the sudden withdrawal of fingers, of more oil being applied to the both of us.

“John, my love, are you ready?”

Nod, nod, yes, I am ready.

And he is pushing into me now, taking his time, so slow, as not to hurt me. It does not hurt me. He stops, checks to see that I am all right. Yes, I am. He pushes deeper. He grips my shoulders with strong fingers; I clamp my legs around him, harder, thrusting upwards, for I have to have all of him inside me. And he is inside now, to the hilt, and it is strange and wonderful and exquisite, and I feel --. The noises I am making are likely very loud, I cannot tell. He gasps into my ear, _John, John_. He begins to move then, properly, to thrust, to take me apart, little by little. A small stab of pain, but the pleasure overrides it, and I wonder why it has taken so long for us to do this, and then I wonder how often we might do this in the future, and then I cannot wonder any more, for he is clutching me so tightly, and I think that he is close, yes, to his finish, for his thrusts are brutal, fast, shunting both of us up the bed and almost off onto the floor. And I come, then, with a low ecstatic shout, as Holmes completes inside me, growling deeply, and it is quite the best sound, and, Oh.

We are still. We would be quiet, also, if it was not for the fact that neither of us can quite catch our breath back.

 _That_ , Holmes says, at last, _was quite extraordinary_.

And I say _Yes, my love, it was_. And yes, yes, you are.

 

\- END -


End file.
